


Hit the Ground Upright

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Bars and Pubs, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bruises, Cheating, Desk Sex, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Flirting, Floor Sex, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, No Aftercare, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Physical Abuse, Power Dynamics, Punishment, Rope Bondage, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Sexting, Situational Humiliation, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Imayoshi isn’t cut out to be a TA." Imayoshi doesn't usually enjoy teaching his undergraduate ethics course, but he finds interest in an unexpected source.





	1. Altered

Imayoshi isn’t cut out to be a TA.

He has no natural inclination towards teaching, no particular drive to help the young undergraduates he’s meant to instruct gain any particular value from his class. If he could get out of teaching the lower-division ethics class he’s assigned to handle this quarter, he would; if there’s anything demonstrated incompetence or pure unwillingness can do to set him free of this particular obligation, he would have mustered sufficient proof of either to break away from the onerous task of babysitting the few dozen undergrads he’s been set in charge of. But the introductory classes are no one’s favorite, and no one cares enough about the results to particularly mind if the person instructing has any real skill, and in the end Imayoshi gets stuck with the most basic introductory group, unfortunately with one of the larger class sizes to go with it. He has nearly forty students staring back at him during the thrice-weekly discussions he’s meant to be leading, most of them bored and some of them asleep; he wonders, sometimes, if his own lack of interest in the subject matter is as clear as theirs is, if they care at all to know that he can barely remember their names long enough to read them from the roster during roll call at the beginning of each class. It’s a trial for him as much as it is for them; he figures between them some thirty will pass, and he’ll be set free of his lecture for at least the week of break between the quarters before embarking on another round of suffering with a new collection of students whose faces he will forget as quickly as he abandons the recollection of their names.

The essays are the worst part. Imayoshi assigns them, of course; that’s part of the class requirement, bolded in his own notes for the course to make it clear he can’t cut it for his own personal reasons. The writing component is meant to demonstrate the students’ competence in basic composition and grammar, though Imayoshi often feels it does the exact opposite; or at least it feels that way, by the time he’s halfway through the stack of essays turned in during the first midterm a few weeks into the quarter. He’s being liberal with the red ink, slashing through needless phrases and penning savage critiques of absent theses or insufficent evidence as a conclusion to each of the stacks of papers he views; by the time he’s made it to the last half of the essays he’s not even bothering to waste the time it takes to put the cap back on his pen between papers. He finishes off his latest attack, this time on the writer’s only vague acknowledgment of the rules of grammar and a sense of style, and then he casts the paper aside before reaching for the dark-lined pages of the next essay to draw it off the stack and forward for his consideration.

He makes it halfway through the second paragraph before he notices something’s wrong.

It’s not the writing style. The style is actually remarkably high-quality, especially compared to the other papers Imayoshi has been trudging through; the sentences flow gracefully from one to the other, the transitions have an elegance to them that steers Imayoshi easily from a single thought to the following one. There’s even something like wit in the introductory phrases, which draw on the mundane boredom of the stock thesis statements but twist them into a tongue-in-cheek tone to match the absurdity of the ethical claim being laid out. Imayoshi can feel a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth as he progresses into the main text of the argument, can feel confusion and pleasure warring for dominance over his thoughts as he proceeds.

It’s only as he’s reading through the logic of the first statement that he has the prickle of awareness, the faint sense of déjàa vu that comes with accidentally rereading the same page of a book carelessly set aside or hearing a quote from a well-known movie, and even then it’s not enough to place. It’s just a faint sense of discomfort, the weight of something almost-forgotten pressing at the back of Imayoshi’s spine and gaining in shape and substance as he continues through the essay. By the time he’s approaching the conclusion his smile has been replaced with a frown, his enjoyment swapped for concentrated focus, and he’s all but scowling at the page as he shifts into the final conclusion. The last paragraph is worst of all, all but an echo for something in the back of Imayoshi’s thoughts; and then, as he reads the final sentence, realization strikes so suddenly he’s left breathless.

“That’s impossible,” he murmurs aloud, giving skepticism voice to the uncaring silence of his room; but he’s moving in any case, leaving the paper he’s just finished reading still open on his desk as he reaches to shuffle with hasty speed through the mismatched stack he’s already worked through. It was near the beginning, he thinks, within the first dozen of the papers he’s been forcing through; and then he finds it, and he’s skimming over the first page of text even as he slides the essay free of the pile.

They’re nearly identical. Not in writing style, certainly, nor in quality; but the arguments laid out are a perfect match, copied point-for-point even down to the order and the evidence brought forth to support them. It’s hardly a simple matter of cutting and pasting text; but the fact of cheating is obvious nonetheless. For a moment Imayoshi is sure it must be the clumsy writer who is to blame, who perhaps worked too closely with a friend and gave up on generating their own ideas in favor of stealing the other’s; but the argument itself is fundamentally flawed, there are obvious holes to anyone with even a basic grasp of the logic being discussed. The level of analysis offered is rudimentary at best and intolerable at worst; it far better fits the struggling style of the first essay than the fluid wit of the second. When Imayoshi goes back to reread the second essay there’s even suggestions in the text itself to the gaps in the argument, points where sentences segue from one topic to the next with the appearance of continuity but none of the reality of it; the more Imayoshi looks at it, the more the whole thing looks like a mockery of the initial student’s essay, an arrogant deconstruction of the shaky argument and immature style at once via graceful prose designed specifically to highlight the flaws and insufficiencies of the first author’s work. Imayoshi stares at the paper for several minutes, reads it through once more just to decide in himself; and then he flips back to the first page and draws the essay aside, considering the name printed in clean black ink at the top corner of the page as he separates it from the rest of the heap.

Imayoshi can’t imagine what kind of a person Hanamiya Makoto is, but he’s more than a little curious to find out.


	2. Unstable

The knock at the door comes right on time.

Imayoshi has his back to the entrance of his office. It _is_ his office in truth; most of his fellow graduate students are trapped two or three in a single space, shoved together so close they can barely move without elbowing someone else in the ribs. Imayoshi was lucky to talk himself into a room with only one other other student instead of two, and more so when she received an approval for the year-long research trip she requested some months prior to her moving into the office with him. Since her departure Imayoshi has had the room entirely to himself, and to whichever students drop in or are summoned, and that means he has no audience to worry over for however this conversation may end up progressing.

“Yes?” Imayoshi says, offering the greeting as a token response as he turns his chair to face the door. He has his most neutral smile on, the vague one that he knows doesn’t make it to his eyes; it’s ought to be enough to take off whatever edge of stress his visitor may have brought with him, ideally enough to disarm him of whatever defenses he may have built up from the guilty conscience Imayoshi is sure he must have.

“Good afternoon,” the student at the doorway says. He looks uncertain; his position is hesitant, with one foot drawn behind him like he’s thinking about running. He has a hand up against the frame of the open door, has his shoulders tipped in as if to make himself smaller. “I’m Hanamiya Makoto. You asked that I come by to see you.”

Imayoshi stares at him for a moment; then, blinking as if with sudden realization, “Ah,” he says, and “yes, of course,” with another flash of a distantly polite smile. “Please come in and shut the door. Have a seat.”

Hanamiya does. He keeps his head ducked down to watch the movement of his feet instead of the other’s face; the gesture gives Imayoshi the chance to take him in unobserved for a moment. Hanamiya’s wearing a white shirt, buttons pressed tight up under his collar and pinning his sleeves to his wrists; he looks uncomfortable in the crisp of the fabric, as awkwardly formal as the tie he has knotted carefully against his collar. His hair is as dark as Imayoshi’s, slicked back from his face but falling forward to cover his expression with how far forward his head is tilted; it skims his shoulders as he sits down, making a dark weight around his features as he settles himself into his seat. His mouth is soft, his lips barely parted on too-fast breathing; he looks anxious, fragile, like he’s scared of being called out specifically even though he’s uncertain as to the cause.

It’s a good act. Imayoshi thinks he might even be convinced by it, at a glance; he’s sure, now, this is why he hasn’t noticed Hanamiya in his class so far, if the other has even bothered to attend. But he’s thinking about the style of that essay, thinking about the fluid viciousness with which the author deconstructed the less articulate writer’s reasoning into a mockery of itself, and it’s the flex of Hanamiya’s hands as he settles himself that Imayoshi is watching, and the absolute steadiness of the other’s fingers as he braces at the chair under him.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says as the other lifts his head to look at him, as he lifts a hand to push the fall of his hair back and off his face. The vowels of the other’s name slide easily off his tongue; they fit against each other with an elegance that Imayoshi appreciates the taste of on his lips. “I wanted to speak to you about the paper you turned in for the latest essay assignment.”

Hanamiya blinks. His lashes are very dark over the strange, pale gold of his eyes; they look like feathers, or like charcoal smudged to hang heavy as moth wings against his skin.

“Of course,” he says, his voice as soft and submissive as the whole facade of his expression. “I turned it in along with everyone else. Did you not find mine with the others?”

“Oh no,” Imayoshi says, meeting and matching Hanamiya’s tone. “I found it. Your writing style is very distinct, you have a true flair for argumentation.”

Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, his mouth curves on a careful smile. “Thank you, senpai.”

“You have real nerve, too,” Imayoshi continues without so much as a flicker in his tone or his expression. “Cheating in an ethics class is a new kind of ironic, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered that before.”

Hanamiya’s eyes go wide, his lashes part in time with the open fall of his mouth. For a moment his whole expression radiates shock as clearly as if he’s a cartoon character giving an overblown imitation of the emotion. “What--you think I was cheating?”

“No,” Imayoshi says with relentless clarity. “I know you were cheating. The question is whether or not your friend was in on it with you or not. Did you develop your arguments together, or did he just have the bad fortune to ask you to proofread his essay before he turned it in?”

Hanamiya blinks without so much as a shift in the shock painted carefully across his whole expression. “What are you talking about, senpai?” His tone is skipping up into a high range of innocence, going faintly saccharine in the back of his throat; it’s like hearing the tone of his essay given audible form, as if Imayoshi can see the threads of the other’s act wearing thin even as he gazes at him from across the desk. “I didn’t work with _anyone_ , that essay was all my own doing.”

Imayoshi lifts a hand to straighten his glasses against the bridge of his nose. “Hanamiya-kun.” His voice is level, his tone pleasant; he’s sure it’s a perfect match for the smile he turns on the student across the table from him. “Don’t fuck with me.”

There’s a beat of time. Hanamiya holds Imayoshi’s gaze, his eyes wide and lips parted on that show of breathless, disbelieving hurt; and Imayoshi stares right back at him, fixing the other with the full weight of his attention from behind the sheen of his glasses. There’s a breath of a pause, a second weighting heavy with anticipation, like the strain between them is building to a peak; and then Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, and his mouth closes, and Imayoshi can see all the facade in him crack and crumble as the other lets himself fall back against the support of the chair behind him.

“You’re good, senpai.” His voice is different now than it was; the cloying sweet of it is gone, it’s dropped over an edge into something darker, more shadowed, weighted down at all the corners like it’s trying to sink to the endless dark of the ocean floor. When he looks up at Imayoshi again his lashes are curtaining the pale of his eyes, turning the yellow gold of them to bronze as he gives the other a considering look. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You must think I’m an idiot,” Imayoshi says pleasantly. “You copied the argument point-for-point, did you think I wouldn’t read the essays at all?”

Hanamiya’s laugh shudders through his shoulders, breaking manic light across his face and flashing at his teeth for a moment of startling emotion. His shirt looks different now than it did; it sits a little better on his shoulders, the cuffs don’t hug quite so painfully tight at his wrists. Slouched back against the support of the chair he looks as comfortable as if he’s leaning against the soft of a familiar couch beneath him.

“None of your coworkers ever do,” he informs Imayoshi. “Everyone knows the grad students hate dealing with the horde of underclassmen. Most of them can barely be bothered to show up to teach lecture, much less pay any attention to the homework assignments they’re grading.” He reaches out to press his arm against the edge of Imayoshi’s desk, leans in hard against the support as he curves himself forward out of his chair to smirk up through the dark of his lashes at the other. “If you’re actually bothering to read that shit, maybe you _are_ an idiot after all, senpai.”

“You’re the one who got caught,” Imayoshi tells him levelly.

“Maybe I wanted to get caught,” Hanamiya suggests. “Why didn’t you turn me in to judicial affairs? You could have gotten me kicked out of your class as easy as that. Do you have some noble intention to save me from myself before it’s too late?”

Imayoshi can feel the corner of his mouth twitch on amusement, the tension pulling hard enough to break free of his rigid self-restraint for just a moment. “Not particularly.”

Hanamiya’s smile flickers, dropping to a frown for a moment as his forehead creases. “Why, then?” he asks. “You don’t have to give me a warning, I know that’s not part of the process.”

“This isn’t a warning.” Imayoshi lifts a hand to shift his glasses again. “I just wanted to let you know that I know.”

Hanamiya’s frown is deepening, the crease between his eyebrows is digging in hard against his face. He straightens from his space-filling sprawl over Imayoshi’s desk, drawing back and out of immediate range of the other’s personal space. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You have an engaging style,” Imayoshi tells him. “I wanted to know who it was in my class that could produce a piece of writing like what I read in your essay.” He leans back in his chair, lets his smile ease deliberately wider by a half-inch. “Now I know.”

Hanamiya stares at him. “Are you trying to psych me out?”

“Is it working?” Imayoshi tips forward out of his chair, leaning in to reclaim the space Hanamiya has left vacant by his retreat. Hanamiya angles himself back involuntarily, his body reacting to the other’s approach too immediately for his self-control or his facade to make an attempt to hide his response. Imayoshi ducks his chin down, lets his smile drag taut at one corner of his mouth as he gazes up over the top of his glasses at Hanamiya and reaches out to offer his hand across the span of the desk between them.

“Imayoshi Shoichi,” he says, letting the lilt of his name roll smooth and polished off his tongue. “I look forward to having you in my class, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya looks at Imayoshi for a long moment. His frown is gone, evaporated as entirely as his smile; the crease in his forehead remains, clinging to the sincerity in his expression as the wide-open show of innocence never did. He stares at Imayoshi’s gaze, at Imayoshi’s smile, at the open offer of Imayoshi’s hand; and finally he looks back to meet the other’s eyes, and lifts his hand to fit his palm against the other’s.

“Hanamiya Makoto,” he says, and there’s a flicker at his mouth, the tug of tension at the very corner of his lips. “Please take care of me, senpai.”

His lashes are heavy with doubt, his shoulders are angled away, even the flash of his smile is hesitant and uncertain; but his hand in Imayoshi’s doesn’t tremble at all.


	3. Like

Imayoshi likes the coffee shop on campus. The coffee they serve is decent, the line more than bearable if he goes during regular class hours instead of between them; and most importantly they’re close, saving him the time of walking or the trouble of giving up his parking spot in exchange for a refill on his usual mug of black coffee. He thinks he would drink far worse than what they serve for the convenience alone; as it is, his afternoon trip across the quad to procure the caffeine to keep him going through the rest of the day is a pleasure, a moment of indulgence both in fresh air and in the taste of the coffee itself. Imayoshi looks forward to it in the back of his head for the hour after lunch, while he waits for the last of the latecomers to disperse from the usual crowd that lingers in front of the shop; and then he sets aside the textbook he’s been reading through, and shrugs a coat on, and ventures out to procure his much-anticipated caffeine.

The quad is nearly empty as he makes his way across it. There’s always a few students around, a new couple kissing in the shadow of one of the trees or a few drowsy seniors napping in the sunshine of the grass; but it’s early in the quarter yet, while most students are still fresh with their determination to attend their classes, and by and large Imayoshi has the path to himself. He takes his time, appreciating the scenery as he rarely takes the time to do and breathing deep lungfuls of clear air instead of the stuffy weight of the warmth inside his office, and he’s feeling refreshed as soon as he steps through the door to the coffee shop, as if some unnoticed weight has lifted off his shoulders.

His order is simple. Imayoshi spent a few years working his way through the more exciting drinks at the coffee shops he regularly frequents, but his tastes have been drawn more and more towards the simple richness of black coffee as time passes. He doesn’t even have to speak to the cashier; the student employee recognizes him and is reaching to take his offered thermos before he’s even told her what he wants. The efficiency of it makes him smile as she goes to fill the container, and he’s still smiling when the door to the shop opens behind him and a voice says, “Fancy running into you here, senpai” in a tone so lilting over mockery that Imayoshi knows who it must be before he even turns.

He turns anyway. He doesn’t have to think about the tug of the smile at his lips; it comes easy, without intention, forming itself against his mouth as quickly as he shifts to look back over his shoulder at Hanamiya. The other is wearing a coat, this time, rather than the put-on appearance of a model student he last wore in Imayoshi’s office; the jacket is dark leather, the weight of it catching the light into a sheen across Hanamiya’s shoulders and at his elbows. His hair is different too; he hasn’t slicked it back today, has left it instead to fall forward over his face so he has to tip his head to the side to flash a grin at Imayoshi. He looks utterly different than he did when he stepped into Imayoshi’s office the day before; but the drag of his smile is the same, the heavy weight of his lashes hasn’t shifted, and Imayoshi dips his chin in a nod of recognition as he looks over the top of his glasses to meet the edge of Hanamiya’s stare.

“Good afternoon, Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says in his most pleasantly generic tone. “Are you free from class right now?”

“I’m definitely not in class,” Hanamiya informs him. “I’m as free as you could hope for, senpai.”

“I see that,” Imayoshi agrees. “Are you as prone to ditching my lecture as your others?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed my perfect attendance before now?” Hanamiya affects a wounded expression and lifts his hand to press over his heart. “I’m hurt, really, I had hoped to make more of an impression than that.”

Imayoshi’s mouth threatens to pull up into a smile again. It takes a conscious force of will to fight it back. “You’re certainly making an impression now.”

Hanamiya’s grin shows all his teeth, a flash of white that looks more like a threat than a sincere expression of happiness. “Thank goodness,” he purrs. “All I really wanted was for my senpai to notice me.”

“I’m sure.” Imayoshi turns back to the counter as the cashier comes back with his full thermos of coffee. “Am I to believe you’ll be a model student now?”

“Of course,” Hanamiya says. His lashes dip, the shadow of them casting over his eyes to mar the clear gold to something darker, dimmer, more weighted with secrets and threats. “I’ll be a good boy for you, senpai.”

Imayoshi’s eyebrow lifts. There’s no question of the implication on Hanamiya’s tone; he’s purring the words in the back of his throat, inverting the meaning on his tongue until it parallels the seduction of his lashes, until there’s enough dark heat on his voice to more than match the steam rising off the surface of Imayoshi’s coffee. For a moment Imayoshi is left to open his mouth on the necessary protest, to give voice to the token rejection he has to give in light of their almost-audience; and then Hanamiya is stepping in and past him, closing the gap between himself and the front counter with such speed that it takes Imayoshi a moment to turn and look back at him.

“I’ll pay for him,” Hanamiya announces, and he’s handing a bill across the counter to the girl on the other side without even pausing to pull it free of a wallet. He must have had it caught between his fingers when he first called out to Imayoshi from the doorway. “This one’s on me.”

Imayoshi frowns at the back of Hanamiya’s head, his mouth tugging down at the corners into judgment; but he waits to say anything until Hanamiya has waved off the cashier’s offer of change and has turned back around to raise an eyebrow at Imayoshi and tip his head towards the door. Imayoshi takes the lead, stepping through the door first and holding the weight of it open; Hanamiya follows so closely on his heels Imayoshi’s gesture is nearly rendered meaningless.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Imayoshi informs Hanamiya as they fall into step together, Hanamiya trailing Imayoshi’s motion back towards the philosophy department without missing a beat. “You’re already on shaky ground with that trick you pulled with the last essay you turned in.”

Hanamiya snorts. “Don’t you mean _we’re_ on shaky ground?” he asks. “Afraid your students will think buying you a coffee will win them a blind eye to any moral slip-ups?”

“That isn’t why I left you unreported,” Imayoshi tells him.

“I know,” Hanamiya agrees. He’s walking closer than he needs to; his shoulder is edging nearer against Imayoshi’s sleeve with every step he takes, like he’s trying to push himself in close enough to occupy the same space as the other. “You just want something to spice up the boredom of your life.” Imayoshi glances sideways at Hanamiya; the other is watching him from under the heavy fall of his hair, his eyes dimmed down to a smoulder of color under the shadow of his hair and lashes together. “Just like me.”

Imayoshi’s mouth tugs at amusement. “No,” he says, and he reaches out to close his fingers hard at Hanamiya’s shoulder, to push him away to arm’s length from the other’s body. “I’m nothing like you.” The flutter of Hanamiya’s lashes says he hears the threat under the other’s tone as clearly as Imayoshi intended it to sound; but he obeys the unspoken order of the push, at least for now, and stays at arm’s length where Imayoshi urged him.

Still, Imayoshi is sure Hanamiya can see the smile at his lips as he raises his coffee to his mouth for a sip. He doesn’t try to hide the expression.


	4. Cut

Imayoshi looks forward to the results of the first midterm.

The test itself is boring. He knows the answers to the questions too well for them to appear challenging in the least, and he knows even while his students’ pencils are still dragging the soft scratch of friction across paper that at least half the answers will be incomplete or frustratingly incoherent. But Hanamiya’s in class, now, as he has been in class every day since his visit to Imayoshi’s office, and Imayoshi finds himself watching the dark fall of the other’s hair and wondering what he’s going to produce for this particular test session. Hanamiya doesn’t make eye contact with him, and Imayoshi never sees him look up from his test; he appears engrossed in what he’s doing until the first few students have brought their assignments up, and then he shuffles to the front with a slouch to his shoulders and a lack of eye contact that gives the impression of mingled boredom and uncertainty at once. He casts his paper down in front of Imayoshi without looking at the other, and turns to make his way to the door, and Imayoshi turns his attention to the next student’s approach, smiling the most reassuring smile he can find in himself as he reaches to flip Hanamiya’s paper over to differentiate it from the rest of the stack.

He saves it for last. That leaves him with a few dozen less intriguing tests to go through first; but Imayoshi considers it worth the wait, or at least tolerable when he knows he has something to look forward to. Hanamiya’s paper sits to the side, apart from the rest as Imayoshi’s working; it’s only once Imayoshi has finished noting the grade for the last of the main pile and carefully aligned them at the edge of his desk that he reaches for Hanamiya’s midterm and leans back in his chair so he can take his time perusing it.

The first half is exceptional. Hanamiya’s style is as fluid as it was in his essay; from the grace and articulation of his arguments here, Imayoshi rather suspects the other’s paper was a first draft rather than something with more thought and effort put into it. The elegant style certainly hasn’t suffered at all from the pressure of composing in-class responses to the questions Imayoshi put; Hanamiya’s replies are quick and clever, cutting to the heart of the answer without wasting any time with unnecessary lead-ins or irrelevant evidence. Imayoshi was planning on reading over the midterm once before going through to add commentary, but for the first page there’s nothing to add; the most he has to offer is praise, and the tone of Hanamiya’s answers and everything of Hanamiya Imayoshi has yet seen himself says the other is aware of his skill as much as Imayoshi is.

The fall-off happens at the second page. One answer is clear, bright and quick and sparkling with a sharp-edged wit that makes Imayoshi smile even when he knows he shouldn’t be; and then he turns the page and the next is stilted, fumbling, uncertain of the argument it’s making and trying to cover up the fact with overblown claims of certainty. Imayoshi knows what to look for, this time, and he’s already read over the other midterms; this answer he’s read before, underneath the burden of red ink commentary he unleashed on one of the earlier tests in his pile. He has to struggle to call up the face that goes with the other student’s name, and even then he’s not entirely sure as to where she was sitting, but she must have been either next to Hanamiya or just in front of him, judging from how perfectly he’s mirrored her argument. It’s impressive, Imayoshi admits in the safety of his own head; he had been watching for it, had been keeping a closer eye on Hanamiya than on anyone else in the room, and he still hadn’t seen so much as a flicker of the other’s gaze to anything other than his own test sheet. Even the handwriting has shifted; Imayoshi sees traces of the other student’s formulaic cursive in the answers rather than the squared-off edges and dragging loops of Hanamiya’s natural penmanship. Imayoshi lifts a hand to his mouth, partially to brace his chin against his palm and mostly to cover the edge of his smile with his fingers, and he’s still smiling when he turns the page to come to the last question.

The white space for text is nearly empty, this time. Imayoshi is fairly sure the other student hadn’t yet finished her reply when Hanamiya handed his paper in, and there’s no trace of any of the copied arguments Hanamiya has touched on so far. Neither is there a return to the elegant skill that was present for the first page; there’s just a scrawl of dark ink, looping curves spilling wide and lopsided over the page as if trying to take up the whole of the space with just a few words of text.

_Having fun yet, senpai?_

Imayoshi can almost hear Hanamiya’s voice lilting over the words, can picture the awkward angle of the other’s head and the heavy fall of his hair over his face as he looks up at Imayoshi. It’s as if he’s back in the classroom, as if Hanamiya is back in his seat, as if there’s no one in the room but the two of them and the echo of Hanamiya’s taunting question thrown back from the walls around them.

Imayoshi reads the words once, twice, tracing the ink-slick curves and lines of them with his eyes rather than reaching out to press his fingertips to the shapes Hanamiya’s pen cut so vividly across the white of the page. Then he leans forward in his chair, and sets the paper down on the desk in front of him, and reaches for his pen without looking away from the midterm in front of him.

 _I’ll see you in office hours_. Imayoshi stares at the page for a moment, at the lilting angles of Hanamiya’s text and the crisp precision of his own; and then he lets his pen drop down by an inch, and lets the ink saturating the point mark out the smooth curve of a parenthesis against the paper.

_(Are you?)_

When he lets the last curve drag heavy over the test sheet, the ink saturating into the white looks like blood on pale skin.


	5. Effort

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

Imayoshi offers the words to the paper in front of him without looking up. He’s been listening to the footsteps approaching down the hallway, has been feeling his shoulders tighten with the pleasant electricity of anticipation of the visitor he knows he’ll have; now, with the clock just clicked over to the new hour, he knows without question who it is who has just stopped outside his office door.

Hanamiya doesn’t so much as hesitate in his response. “I can’t believe you’re letting me get away with it,” he drawls. “Aren’t you supposed to uphold the morals of the university in your position?”

“Who said I was letting you get away with it?” Imayoshi does look up then, raising his head just enough to make eye contact with Hanamiya standing in the doorway. Hanamiya’s wearing his black jacket again, the one with the sleek leather that carries a shine to match the slick dark of his hair; he’s leaning back against the far edge of the frame, his arms crossed over his chest in an illusion of calm that would be more convincing, Imayoshi thinks, if he weren’t carrying so much strain at the corners of his eyes. “Shut the door, Hanamiya-kun.”

“Ooh,” Hanamiya coos. “How exciting,” but he speaks softly enough that his voice won’t carry, and he’s stepping inside regardless of his mocking tone, placing himself inside the small space with Imayoshi as he kicks a foot behind him to knock the door shut. The too-aggressive motion rattles the door in its frame as it slams into place; Imayoshi gazes at it for a moment as Hanamiya comes forward with that same vaguely sinuous stride he showed in the coffee shop. He catches a hand at the back of the chair set just to one side of Imayoshi’s desk and drags it roughly around so the back is to the other instead; when he steps in to straddle the frame he angles his knees a little wider than they need to go, and takes his time settling against the chair so the tight strain of his pants over the open spread of his knees is pinned close against the slats forming the back of the chair. His arms fall over the top, one along the wood back and the other sprawling out to hang over Imayoshi’s desk, and then he tips in to drop his head atop the pillow he’s made of his arm, huffing an exhale as he looks up through the weight of his hair at the other in front of him.

“So what’s it to be?” he asks, with as much off-hand disinterest as if they’re talking about someone completely different, as if it’s not his own academic career hovering in the balance of the space between the two of them. “What are you going to do to me, senpai?”

Imayoshi tips back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers Hanamiya in front of him. “Are you trying to get expelled?”

Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his smile twists hard at one corner of his mouth. “Would I be doing this if I thought you would expel me?” He shifts against the chair and kicks one leg out to encroach on the space under Imayoshi’s desk. “I’m bored just like you. Everyone is so _good_ around here, it’s exhausting.”

“It’s a university,” Imayoshi tells him flatly. “Most of your classmates are happy for the opportunity to study here.”

Hanamiya rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh as dismissive as the weight of his expression. “The _opportunity_ ,” he repeats in a singsongy voice like he’s reciting from some memorized pledge. “They’re too busy following the rules to take any of the _real_ opportunities.”

“Like cheating on all your assignments?” Imayoshi asks.

“Like making yourself stand out.” Hanamiya lifts his head from the slumped angle he’s made of himself over his arm; when he looks up at Imayoshi his eyes are dark under the weight of his hair, the drag of his smile carries all the threat of poison on it. “I have your attention, at least, don’t I?”

“I’m hardly likely to recommend you for any academic advancement,” Imayoshi tells him. “You’d be better off dropping your classes now before you get expelled by someone other than me.”

Hanamiya snorts. “No one else is smart enough to catch me,” he says. “I didn’t think you were going to notice the essay, I’m impressed, really.”

Imayoshi raises an eyebrow. “You think you’re some kind of genius just because you can copy someone else’s answers without getting caught?”

Hanamiya laughs openly, this time, straightening from his forward lean and rocking against the chair under him while he braces himself with a hold at the back of it. His jacket draws back from his wrists to leave the strain along the tendons clear to see.

“I _am_ a genius,” he says without looking away from Imayoshi’s face. “I just decide to use that against other people.”

“Rather than for the betterment of the world?” Imayoshi asks. He lifts a hand to adjust his glasses on his nose. “That’s a particularly immoral perspective to adopt.”

“I know,” Hanamiya says, purring over the sound like he’s particularly pleased with himself. “Are you trying to say you wouldn’t do the same thing?” He tips forward in his chair all at once, drawing himself closer by his bracing hold against the back; with his gaze fixed on the other Imayoshi can see the glitter of color behind the shadow of his lashes, can see the flicker of mania against the tension at his lips. “You can be as polite and formal as you want, senpai, but if you really cared about morals you would have turned me in after that first essay.”

Hanamiya’s head cants to the side, his mouth softens, his forehead creases into the appearance of concern. “Why _didn’t_ you?” he asks, the rhetoric of his question pulling it into the high, quivering range of true uncertainty that Imayoshi is certain he doesn’t feel. “Do you think it’s more interesting this way?” He angles his foot in around the leg of his chair, lets his body tilt sideways with the force. “Are you afraid I’ll blackmail you?” His smile pulls wider, his hand drops to his side; when he draws his fingers up his touch catches at the bottom edge of his shirt, the friction of the contact pulling the fabric up to bare an inch of near-translucent skin just over his hip. “Are you interested in blackmailing _me_?”

“Maybe I just want to see what you’ll do,” Imayoshi says, and he lifts his foot to brace the sole of his shoe hard against the back of the chair Hanamiya’s sitting in and kick with enough force to skid the other back by a few inches. Hanamiya grabs for the back of his chair, huffing shock at the unexpected impact, and by the time he’s lifting his head to fix a glare on Imayoshi the other is looking back down instead to push the midterm aside and clear space for the textbook still unopened on the other side of the table. “I’ll see you in class, Hanamiya-kun.”

There’s a pause. Imayoshi can feel the whole of his spine prickling with self-awareness, as if his existence itself is coming into sharper focus with the weight of the gaze he can feel lingering heavy against him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as swallow to give away the adrenaline rushing hot in his veins, and finally there’s a scuff of sound that would be loud enough to make Imayoshi jump, if he weren’t ready for it. As it is he doesn’t react at all, doesn’t even catch his breath at the sound, and he doesn’t look up as Hanamiya shoves roughly to his feet to stamp towards the door with all the irritable force of a petulant child. Imayoshi waits until there’s a stutter in the other’s steps, until he’s sure Hanamiya is reaching for the door; and then: “If you slam my door again you’ll find out exactly how far short your genius falls,” in a pleasantly conversational tone as he looks up over the top of his glasses.

Hanamiya has paused to look back, his motion stilled by the effect of the other’s voice on him; his forehead is still creased on irritation, his hand still tense with anger at the handle of the door drawn forward out of the frame. He’s scowling at Imayoshi, his whole expression set into the lines of stubborn resistance that so often bring completely arbitrary argumentation in their wake, and for a breath of time Imayoshi thinks he’s going to lash out, thinks he’s going to fling the door shut in flagrant disregard of the unspoken command clinging to Imayoshi’s words. But Imayoshi keeps watching him, holding his expression as perfectly neutral as he can make it, and behind Hanamiya’s eyes he can see that fierce resistance quail, can see surrender flicker across the other’s expression before he thinks Hanamiya is even aware he’s going to submit. Hanamiya’s frown tightens at his lips, his eyes tensing at the corners as he squints at Imayoshi like he’s trying to get a read on him; and then he huffs a meaningless show of resistance, and pulls the door the rest of the way open so he can turn and leave.

Imayoshi keeps watching as Hanamiya strides down the hall, as the door swings shut behind him; the other doesn’t turn back until the door is nearly closed, and then it’s only for a moment, a flicker of a glance over his shoulder to catch Imayoshi’s fixed gaze on his back. Their eyes meet stare-for-stare; and then the door clicks shut between them, and Imayoshi looks back to the book in front of him as he lets the tension in his chest ease on a shivering exhale.

He hopes someday Hanamiya’s arrogance will win out over his self-preservation. He’d like to see how long that stubbornness can hold out against a full application of effort on his part.


	6. Insight

Hanamiya’s waiting outside Imayoshi’s office, this time.

Imayoshi hasn’t even had a chance to see what he’s done yet. He still has the heap of the latest homework assignments in the bag slung over his shoulder from when he collected it during class; Hanamiya must have sprinted to beat him here, or maybe taken a shortcut Imayoshi doesn’t know about to abbreviate the travel time. He certainly doesn’t look winded; sitting on the floor outside Imayoshi’s office, he gives the impression he’s been slouching there for the whole duration of the morning waiting with bored patience for the other’s arrival.

“I don’t have office hours today,” Imayoshi tells him as he approaches with his usual unhurried pace; he doesn’t speed for Hanamiya’s waiting any more than he would for anything else.

“But senpai,” Hanamiya drawls at him, angling his head to the side to flash the dragging edge of his smile up at Imayoshi. “I’m _really_ struggling in the class.”

“Do you need to make an individual appointment?” Imayoshi asks, only sparing Hanamiya a glance before he turns his attention to the work of unlocking his office door. “I’d be happy to schedule a time to accommodate your availability.”

“Yeah,” Hanamiya says, in a tone that says the opposite. “But I went to all the trouble to come out here now, couldn’t you spare a few minutes for me?” He’s pushing to his feet all at once, rising up to his full height in Imayoshi’s periphery; he’s nearly on level with the other, although Imayoshi thinks he’s losing an inch or two to the tipped-forward hunch he seems so fond of. Imayoshi turns the key in the lock, feels the weight of the deadbolt give way under his touch; it’s only as he draws the key back to replace it in his pocket that he spares a glance for Hanamiya leaning in close against his arm.

“I don’t know what you did yet,” he says in the softest tone he can muster, a murmur of a whisper that barely hums over his lips en route to Hanamiya. “I collected your assignment fifteen minutes ago.”

“And you’re not desperate enough to read it under your desk in class?” Hanamiya asks. He’s tipped in far towards Imayoshi, like he’s trying to make a curtain of the dark of his hair for the shift of their words; the gold of his eyes is dimmed to a sultry suggestion of color, the flash of his smile is brief but brilliant against the white of his teeth. “You’re not as intrigued as you claim to be.”

“I have self-control,” Imayoshi informs him, and pushes the door to his office open without looking away from the heavy dark of Hanamiya’s lashes over his eyes. “You would do better learning some for yourself, I think.”

Hanamiya shrugs, a sharp, careless lift of one shoulder. “What’s the point?” he asks. “I have you to worry about me instead.”

Imayoshi feels the corner of his mouth twitch on a flicker of amusement for himself more than intended to be shared with Hanamiya. “I’m not worried about you,” he says with more sincerity than he suspects Hanamiya will attribute to the words, and then he turns away and steps forward into his office without giving Hanamiya the chance to pull back. The other is left to stumble forward, his balance giving way as Imayoshi steps out and away from him, and Imayoshi takes the lead into the office while Hanamiya is still huffing irritation from the doorway behind him. He rounds the corner to his desk, brings his bag up to set against the surface, and he’s just opening the top so he can draw the papers inside free when Hanamiya collects himself enough to follow him into the space.

“You _care_ ,” Hanamiya insists, making the words something between a statement and a demand, like he’s trying to force Imayoshi into emotional investment with him. “Don’t try to say you’re completely neutral _now_.”

“I didn’t say I was neutral.” Imayoshi draws his chair in towards his desk and settles himself before the heap of papers to begin flicking through them. “But I’m not losing sleep worrying over your future, either.”

“Ah, well.” Hanamiya reaches to push the door shut behind him -- more gently than he has before -- before he steps in close to lean over the desk and cast Imayoshi’s movement into shadow. “We’ll get there eventually, won’t we, senpai?”

Imayoshi glances up over his glasses at Hanamiya’s smile. “We’ll see,” he says, and he draws Hanamiya’s assignment free of the pile to offer it across the table without looking at it. “Is this what you wanted?”

“That’s my assignment,” Hanamiya agrees. “Don’t you want to know what I wrote?”

“I do.” Imayoshi extends his hand farther over the narrow space of his desk to shove the paper against Hanamiya’s chest. His palm hits with enough force to huff the air out of the other’s lungs, but Imayoshi doesn’t pull his hand away and doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the scowl Hanamiya turns on him. “Read it.”

Hanamiya’s forehead creases, his mouth draws down at the corners. “I _know_ what I wrote,” he snaps.

“Read it,” Imayoshi repeats, and then, as Hanamiya’s expression tightens further on confusion: “Aloud,” and he can see the whole of the other’s face ease into understanding, can see epiphany like near-ecstasy break over the taut lines of Hanamiya’s scowl. Hanamiya blinks, his pale eyes dragging down over the other’s face; and then he lifts his hand to catch the bottom edge of the assignment, and says “As you command,” with a duck into a bow deep enough to be more mocking than sincere.

Imayoshi lets the edge of the paper go,  dropping back into his chair as Hanamiya straightens. His elbow braces at the arm underneath him, he fits the weight of his chin against the support of his palm, and in front of him Hanamiya steps back, moving into the clear space at the center of the room like an actor positioning himself on stage for a great monologue.

He’s a good performer. Imayoshi had expected that much, at least, from the various personas he’s seen slide on and off Hanamiya’s presentation of himself for general consumption; his acting skills must be excellent, if he chooses to bring them into play and can successfully draw those around him into believing he’s someone other than who he really is. It’s a pleasure just to listen to him read, even if Imayoshi were completely unversed in the subject at hand; Hanamiya’s voice is clear, his emphasis engaging, and through the whole of his narration emotion flickers across his expression like a storm battling for control over a clear sky. He commits to every line, engages with every paragraph, until by the time he concludes decisively his sweeping bow seems not at all unsuited to the reading he just performed.

Imayoshi doesn’t clap, although he has a brief desire to, as if his own reaction has been drawn up into the show Hanamiya is putting on, as if he’s been pulled into the reality constructed by the other’s actions. He smiles instead, letting the amusement in his thoughts break free into a slow curve of his lips, and from the way Hanamiya echoes back the expression, that form of encouragement is far better suited to his tastes anyway.

“That’s quite an argument,” Imayoshi tells him.

“Do you think so?” Hanamiya asks, folding his hands behind him and reaching to clasp a hand around one elbow like he’s an uncertain student flattered and embarrassed at receiving praise. “I worked hard on it.”

“It’s of very high quality,” Imayoshi says. “Graduate-level work and citations, actually.”

“Really?” Hanamiya opens his eyes wide and blinks through an overblown show of surprise. “Why, senpai, I had no _idea_.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Imayoshi is smiling openly, now, his whole expression giving way to amusement. “How long did it take you to memorize my publications?”

Hanamiya’s put-upon shock melts away, the bright innocence of his eyes shifting to their usual half-lidded weight. “Not long,” he says, and tosses the paper back across Imayoshi’s desk with careless grace. “I told you, I’m a genius.”

Imayoshi extends one hand over his desk to fit his fingers against the edge of the paper, just over the top line of his own words rewritten word-for-word in the slippery elegance of Hanamiya’s handwriting. “You certainly have some skill.”

Hanamiya makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, a huff of air like Imayoshi’s slapped him. When the other looks up Hanamiya is staring at him with his whole expression gone to shadow, his mouth dragging down into the weight of a frown instead of the bright, put-upon beauty of his smile. Imayoshi wants to dig his fingers in against the curve of it, wants to see if that petulant frustration goes all the way through Hanamiya’s body, if it’s any less a show than the personas he adopts and discards with manic speed.

“ _Some skill_ ,” Hanamiya repeats, his voice scornful and mocking over his imitation of Imayoshi’s tone. “Goddamn, senpai, do you have ice in place of blood?”

Imayoshi snorts. “Hardly,” he says. “Do you have actual talent or are you only able to copy the work of others?” He picks up the paper and tosses it towards Hanamiya; the other lets it hit him without trying to stop the impact, leaves his hands at his sides and leaves the paper to flutter to the floor while he stares at Imayoshi with pure murder in his eyes. Imayoshi can feel his smile pull wider, can feel his gaze gaining weight and form as he fixes Hanamiya with the full of his attention. “I’ll be a lot more interested if you prove your own value instead of echoing the inferior work of others.”

Hanamiya’s mouth twists, his jaw flexes under his skin. Imayoshi can see the tension of it straining all against the line of the other’s neck; he wonders if Hanamiya can feel the heat of his pulse pounding to fury in his temples. “I don’t need your _validation_ ,” he spits, the word dragging rough and raw over his tongue. “If you just want another boring student, you have more than enough of them to choose from.”

“I don’t,” Imayoshi tells him, his voice level but his volume loud, clear enough that it echoes off the walls of the office and overrides the shrill edge of Hanamiya’s tone. “I want to know who _you_ are, Hanamiya-kun.” He holds the other’s gaze for a moment, lets the silence between them pull long over the huff of Hanamiya’s frustrated inhales; and then he looks down, ducking his head and lifting a hand to adjust his glasses as he considers the papers in front of him. “Now. As these are not my regularly scheduled office hours…”

“Fuck you,” Hanamiya says, the words harsh with clarity against his tongue.

“I’ll see you in class,” Imayoshi says pleasantly, and keeps his head down as Hanamiya growls savage frustration at his inattention and turns to storm towards the door. Imayoshi waits until he hears the hinges creak, waits until the sound of Hanamiya’s footsteps in the empty hall has given way to the _click_ of the door settling back into place; it’s only then that he lifts his head and pushes back from his desk so he can pick up Hanamiya’s dropped paper from the floor and move to turn the lock on the office door. He takes the assignment back to his desk, his gaze more on the ink across the page than on the mundane familiarity of his surroundings, and by the time he’s settling back into his chair he’s engrossed in the fluid scrawl of Hanamiya’s handwriting across the page, in reading over his own words made fascinatingly unfamiliar by another’s hand.

Until Hanamiya gives him what he wants, he’ll make do with what fragments of insight he can glean from what he already has.


	7. Tip

“At least my students have finally calmed down after the first midterm came back,” Susa sighs from Imayoshi’s elbow. “You’d think they’d never heard of grading on a curve before.”

“This happens every quarter,” Imayoshi reminds him as he reaches to accept his drink from the bartender. “Don’t you ever get used to it?”

“No.” Susa’s halfway through his beer already; he ordered before Imayoshi showed up and appears determined to make that extend to at least one extra round of drinks for himself. “I keep thinking maybe this will be the year we’ll get undergrads who actually _listen_ when I tell them the grading policy.”

Imayoshi grins. “You’re too much of an idealist,” he informs the other as he tries a sip of his drink. “If you don’t have any expectations you’ll be a lot less disappointed when they fail to meet them.”

“Easy for you to say,” Susa says. “You’re don’t care about teaching at all, it’s just a job for you.”

“It’s just a job for you too,” Imayoshi points out. “The fact that you want to make a career out of it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be doing it for money.”

Susa sighs. “You really are heartless,” he says, and downs half of what remains of his beer at one go. “Have you ever really cared about anything in your whole life?”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” Imayoshi says. “Given enough time to consider the question.”

Susa rolls his eyes. “You’re a horrible person,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m still friends with you.”

“Habit, I expect.” Imayoshi gestures to the bartender, indicating Susa’s nearly-empty glass, and she nods and moves to pour another. “And because I pay for your drinks.”

“Oh yeah.” Susa finishes his first beer, setting the glass down against the bar counter with a _click_ just as his second arrives. “It’s coming back to me now.”

Imayoshi grins. “I thought that might jog your memory.”

“ _Senpai_.”

The voice is loud, pitched high and verging onto the edge of shrill to be heard over the rumble of the crowd around them; under any ordinary circumstances Imayoshi wouldn’t be able to recognize the speaker just from the one word, wouldn’t even be sure they were speaking to him at all. But there’s a shudder that runs down his spine, like a premonition of understanding in the moment before he turns, and so he knows who he’ll see as he looks back over his shoulder to let his gaze come into focus on yellow-gold eyes and a lopsided smile.

“Senpai,” Hanamiya says again as he draws closer, winding through the crowd with a grace that lets him sidestep the motion of those around him even as he keeps his gaze fixed on Imayoshi’s face and his mouth tugging sharply up at the edge of that smile. “Fancy running into you in a place like this.” He steps in close towards the bar, angling himself so his shoulder is tipping between Susa and Imayoshi; when he reaches out to steady himself his fingertips land at Imayoshi’s sleeve, the weight of the contact pressing to the other’s skin as Hanamiya leans in conspiratorially and widens his eyes. “Are you _stalking_ me?”

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says with polite composure. “I’m afraid this is just a case of coincidence.” He lifts his hand from the bar and reaches to push against Hanamiya’s wrist, just under the hem of the other’s sleeve so his fingers are touching warm-flushed skin as he urges the other’s touch sideways and away from him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s never a disappointment to see you,” Hanamiya purrs back as he lets his hand fall to his side. He tips his head to look back over his shoulder at Susa; the angle of the motion strains his neck and leaves the pull of tendons against the side of his throat clearly visible to Imayoshi. “Hi there, who are you?”

“Susa Yoshinori,” Susa says, his whole expression weighting into a frown for Hanamiya. “Imayoshi, you know this guy?”

“Hanamiya Makoto,” Hanamiya says, pivoting away from Imayoshi entirely to offer his hand for Susa to shake. “I’m a third-year undergrad.”

“He’s one of my trouble students,” Imayoshi says, and Hanamiya tips his head to throw a smirk back over his shoulder at the other. “You know the type.”

“Yeah.” Susa takes Hanamiya’s hand and offers a perfunctory shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Hanamiya purrs, ducking his head into a nod towards Susa before he turns back to Imayoshi. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I wouldn’t want to spoil your night.”

“Don’t worry,” Imayoshi smiles back. “You haven’t.” That gets a flicker of tension at the corners of Hanamiya’s eyes, a momentary lapse in the put-on curve of his smile; but then his expression clears, falling back to the facade of an enthusiastic student as he turns away from Imayoshi to offer a wave to Susa.

“It was good to meet you,” he says with polite insincerity. “It’s always nice to see my senpai outside of the classroom!”

“I’m sure,” Imayoshi says. “I’ll see you in class, Hanamiya-kun.” It’s a clear dismissal, so direct he wonders for a moment if Hanamiya won’t rebel against it; but Hanamiya just glances at him before ducking his head into surrender and stepping away.

“Of course,” he says, his tone smooth and polished and utterly put-on. “See you there!” And he’s turning to move away, retreating back through the crowd of people with such speed that Imayoshi loses sight of him after just a few seconds.

Susa gusts an exhale beside him. “Jeez,” he says, turning away from the crowd and back to the full glass of beer in front of him. “He’s unsettling. Are all your problem students like that one?”

Imayoshi lifts a shoulder into the easy angle of a shrug. “More or less,” he says, tasting the weight of the lie syrup-sweet at the back of his tongue. He turns his attention back to the counter and brings the weight of his glass carefully to his lips for another sip. “Do you think yours will have calmed down by the time they take the final exam?”

It’s easy to lead Susa down a different conversational route, either due to Imayoshi’s casual distraction or just because Susa isn’t particularly interested in the other’s overly friendly student, Imayoshi isn’t sure which and doesn’t care. It’s enough to keep Susa engaged in conversation for the hour or two they have free, enough for Imayoshi to lose himself in the easy ebb and flow of chatting with a old friend; his attention is wholly held by the fluid conversation, and he doesn’t look around to take stock of the rest of the room around him. It’s only as the evening is spilling over into night that Susa sighs resignation, and slides off his stool to go in somewhat unsteady search of a bathroom, and Imayoshi is left to tip his head and look over his shoulder at the rest of the room.

The crowd has thinned slightly from the earlier crush. The sound filling the room is still a dull roar -- Imayoshi is sure he’ll feel the ache of it like cotton in his ears when he leaves -- but most of the bar patrons have found a table, or have settled into corners away from the main crowd against the bar. It’s easy enough to glance over them, to consider and discard unfamiliar features and too-pale hair, and it only takes Imayoshi a matter of seconds to locate the focus of his search.

Hanamiya is in the far back corner of the bar, slouching back in his chair and watching the more active conversation with the few people at the table with him with disinterest so obvious on his face Imayoshi can’t imagine why his companions have tolerated him so long. He has an empty glass in front of him with the remnants of some citrus garnish at the bottom atop the ice; his fingers are dragging over the condensation spilling wet down the side to form a puddle alongside the coaster he’s pointedly eschewed. He looks petulant, looks irritated; in the dim lighting his hair looks like oil falling into a slick curtain to shadow over the glow of his eyes and the heavy pout of his lips. Imayoshi takes him in, gazing at him unseen from across the distance of the bar; and then he turns back over the counter and gestures the bartender over towards himself.

“I’d like to close out my tab,” he says, and then, like an afterthought as the bartender begins to turn away: “And send a drink to the table in the far corner.”

The bartender looks past him to the shadows where Hanamiya is sitting with the rest of his group. “The dark one?”

“He doesn’t look like he’s having a very good night,” Imayoshi tells her. “Give him another of what he’s drinking to see if that doesn’t pick up his mood.”

The bartender ducks her head. “Yes sir,” she says with the careful neutrality that Imayoshi always so admires in situations like these. “Would you like to send a name with it?”

Imayoshi pulls his wallet free of his pocket to draw his card free and offer it across the counter. “No need,” he says, as Susa reemerges from the bathroom and begins to pick his way back so they can leave. “He’ll know it’s from me.”


	8. Impact

Hanamiya arrives an hour after the final ends.

Imayoshi’s been expecting him. He doesn’t have posted hours, doesn’t have anything to indicate he’ll be in his office after the conclusion of the final; he could just as easily have taken the essays home to review in the privacy of his own apartment, or left grading for later in the week and gone out for a celebratory drink to mark the end of the quarter. But he hasn’t gone out, and he hasn’t gone home, and it’s not that he’s waiting for Hanamiya as much as that he knows, knows as surely as he has ever known anything, that the other is going to visit.

Imayoshi doesn’t look up at the sound of footsteps. He recognizes them -- there’s an odd scuff to Hanamiya’s footfalls, he’s learned, like the other doesn’t quite lift his feet all the way off the ground as he moves -- but he’s in the middle of rereading the other’s final exam, and he doesn’t spare a glance up as those scuffing footsteps draw to a halt outside his door. There’s a moment of silence, quiet so complete Imayoshi can hear Hanamiya swallow, can hear the shift of the other’s throat on hesitation; and then: “Senpai,” Hanamiya says, his voice so level even Imayoshi is briefly impressed.

Imayoshi finishes rereading the paragraph in front of him. He takes a breath, collecting his composure back around him as he returns the front page of the paper to its rightful place and squares the essay in front of him on his desk, and then he lifts his head and turns his full attention on Hanamiya.

“I’m going to fail you,” Imayoshi informs him.

Hanamiya doesn’t even blink. “But senpai,” he says, his voice still completely level, without even a trace of emotion clinging to the clean line of it. “I really need to pass this class to graduate on time.” He takes a step closer, crossing over the barrier of the doorway and into the office; Imayoshi watches him come closer, watches him reach behind himself to catch his fingers at the weight of the door and push it back towards shut in his wake. “It’s one of the requirements for my major.” The door clicks shut, the latch settling into place at Hanamiya’s urging; Imayoshi watches Hanamiya’s lashes shift, watches the other’s chin tilt down so he’s looking through the shadows of his hair at Imayoshi. “Isn’t there _anything_ I can do to get a passing grade?”

Imayoshi looks at Hanamiya for a moment: the slick dark of his hair, the damp part of his lips, the unsubtle suggestion in the hazed-over bronze of his eyes. His shirt is loose over his collarbones; Imayoshi can see shadows clinging to unhealthy pallor, can see the dip of skin pulled taut over bone like it’s offering itself for the weight of fingers, can see the shift of breathing in Hanamiya’s throat like it’s begging for the pressure of a hand to cut off the rhythmic drag of it. He takes a breath, feels the full weight of it pressing hard against the inside of his chest, filling his lungs with all the possible responses he could offer; and then he opens his mouth, and his throat tightens, and he coughs the sharp-edged laugh that’s the only reply he was ever going to give.

“Are you kidding?” Imayoshi asks. “I thought you claimed to be a genius.”

Hanamiya’s forehead creases, his jaw sets as his chin comes up. His eyes catch the light and flare into furious gold. “I thought you weren’t an idiot.”

“I’m not,” Imayoshi says. “Which is why I’m not going to fuck my _student_. Letting you continue cheating is one thing, engaging in an inappropriate relationship for a passing grade entirely another.”

Hanamiya’s laugh is brutal, low and savage in the back of his throat. “As if you wouldn’t be in trouble already from what you’ve let me get away with.”

“I’m failing you out of my class,” Imayoshi reminds him. “I’m hardly ‘letting you get away with it.’”

Hanamiya’s mouth falls into a scowl, his lips curve heavy on the weight of familiar anger. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you, senpai? You’ve been flirting with me all quarter and now you’re not going to follow through?”

Imayoshi snorts another laugh. “Your seduction technique needs work, Hanamiya-kun.” He looks down to the paper in front of him and reaches out to brace his fingertips across the top of it, just under the title. “You’re a student in my class, and I am meant to be teaching you. You’ve done nothing at all to demonstrate your understanding of the subject matter.” He looks up over the top of his glasses at Hanamiya, fixing the flattest gaze he can find on the other’s face. “Quite the opposite, in fact. As your instructor, the only thing I can give you is a failing grade.”

There’s a pause. Hanamiya’s eyes are still dark with fury, his mouth still set hard on emotion; but he doesn’t speak for several long seconds, and that demonstrates his intelligence better than anything else Imayoshi has yet seen from him. Imayoshi waits, counting every second Hanamiya takes to think over his words; and finally Hanamiya’s throat works on a swallow, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“‘As my instructor,’” he repeats, and his voice is ragged over anger but the words are crystalline, brilliant with cut-diamond clarity. “And if I wasn’t your student?”

Imayoshi doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches Hanamiya, his gaze fixed full on the shadowed anger of the other’s face while electricity prickles against the length of his spine like heat lightning, like a friction burn rising under the pressure of Hanamiya’s gaze alone. Hanamiya stares at him for long, long seconds, his gaze picking apart every detail of Imayoshi’s expression; and then his lashes flutter, and his breath huffs out of him on a sigh, and he’s turning back to the door even before he speaks.

“Fine,” he says. “See you later, senpai.”

Imayoshi is braced for the slam of the door against the frame, but the impact is still hard enough to rattle the walls of his office.


	9. Erratic

Imayoshi doesn’t think about Hanamiya at all over the winter break.

He has other things to worry about. Once he’s done going through the stack of final exams and entering in the final determination of grades for the dozens of undergraduates that make up his students he’s free; or rather, he gives up one set of responsibilities for another. Winter break comes with family holiday obligations, parties and visiting and small talk with relatives Imayoshi sees once a year if he’s lucky and thinks of no more frequently. It’s something of a gauntlet, more stressful than otherwise, until the email that comes two days before New Year’s with his next quarter’s class assignments is very nearly welcome just for the reprieve it grants from the complicated triviality of family politics. Imayoshi glances over the information: his class is smaller, this quarter, for which he’s grateful, and there’s no trace of any familiar names on his roster, Hanamiya’s or otherwise. The confirmation makes him smile at the glow of the computer screen; and then he closes out of his email, and turns off the computer, and returns to dedicate himself to the demands of the holidays.

He comes back early. This is another part of his holiday habit; he prefers to return to his office a day earlier than the rest of the department, to stretch out and get himself settled back into his usual routine before classes pick up later in the week. It’s nice to have the building to himself, pleasant to be free from the demands of either students or family; he’s pleased to see his fellow grad student remains absent on her research project, glad to confirm he’ll have to space to himself again. He settles his bag in the corner, and unpacks the few textbooks he took home with him over the break, and then he sits down behind his desk, and opens up a notebook, and begins reviewing his planned syllabus for this quarter.

There’s no sound at all in the hallway, this time. Imayoshi is listening for those familiar footsteps, ready for the echo of a shout down the deserted hallway of the department; but there’s neither, no indication at all that there’s anyone in the building except for him until, without any fanfare at all: “Senpai,” in a tone dragging rough in a familiar voice.

Imayoshi looks up. Hanamiya is standing in the doorway, his hand thrown out to brace against the edge of the frame as if to hold himself up. Whatever the holiday break may have been to him, restful it wasn’t; there are shadows under his eyes, his gaze is frantic with directionless energy. He looks like he’s been pacing, mentally if not physically, like he’s worn through all the smooth polish of his usual facade with too much use until the frayed nerves and manic strain underneath have been laid bare to see. Imayoshi looks at him for a long moment, his gaze level and his mouth closed; and then he braces a hand against the desk in front of him, and pushes himself to his feet, and Hanamiya lets a breath go so loud on relief Imayoshi can hear it from across the room.

Imayoshi walks slowly. If Hanamiya is trembling with excess energy Imayoshi is calm, collected, metering out his breathing and the pace of his steps to serve as a counterpoint to Hanamiya’s erratic inhales at the doorway. Hanamiya moves forward as Imayoshi approaches, his desperation apparently gaining certainty as the other comes closer. He clears the doorway, braces his fingers against the door to push it shut behind him; and Imayoshi moves all at once, whip-quick to cover what distance remains between them. His open palm lands against the door, his force shoving it back so fast Hanamiya’s fingers only barely miss getting caught in the action; but he’s grabbing at Hanamiya’s shirt too, fisting his free hand into the fabric and dragging the other sharply sideways to jerk him off-balance before he has a moment to catch himself. Hanamiya’s breath spills from him in a sharp noise, something of a yelp and something of a shout; but the department is empty, and Imayoshi’s door slams shut on the telltale note of his voice, and then Imayoshi’s arm is shoving Hanamiya back against the support of the door and there’s no one to hear them but each other.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says, feeling the syllables take on new shape at his lips, feeling the heat of them form to fit at the shadows of his mouth. Hanamiya’s eyes are wide, his lashes fluttering fast over disoriented confusion, and Imayoshi doesn’t give him a chance to compose himself. He pushes his arm up instead, lets his forearm catch and pin hard against the tension in the other’s throat, and as Hanamiya chokes against the sudden constriction Imayoshi is leaning in closer, tipping his shoulders in to pin Hanamiya tight against the resistance of the door. “Do you remember what you did before winter break?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hanamiya hisses, his voice pulling taut over the effort filling his lungs costs him against Imayoshi’s arm. He has a hand up at Imayoshi’s elbow, is pushing against the other with reflexive effort made useless by the minimal force he’s using. Imayoshi doesn’t let the pressure ease by so much as an inch. “ _Senpai_.”

“I asked you a question.” Imayoshi keeps his eyes on Hanamiya’s face, on the flutter of his lashes and the open gasp of his lips; he doesn’t need to look to step in closer, to force a knee between Hanamiya’s or to brace his free hand hard against the shift of breathing in the other’s chest. “Are you going to answer me?”

Hanamiya’s mouth twists on a grimace, his fingers clutch and cling to Imayoshi’s arm. “What--what are you talking about?”

“You slammed my door,” Imayoshi informs him, his voice perfectly cool as his weight comes forward, as the full force of his body shoves Hanamiya back hard against the door behind him. Hanamiya’s breath hisses out of him in a desperate spill; Imayoshi can feel the heat of the air against his lips, he’s pressed so close to Hanamiya’s body. “Did you forget?”

Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, his tongue slides slick across his lips. His skin looks paler from this close up, or maybe it’s the force of the adrenaline in him that is so sapping the color from his cheeks and darkening the shadows under his eyes to the weight of bruises, as if Imayoshi had caught the other’s head between his palms and weighted his thumbs in against the hard edges of the other’s eye sockets. His mouth is wet when he draws his tongue away, his lips slick and flushed dark as he struggles for air. “Did you think about that all break?”

He’s trying for taunting. Imayoshi can hear the attempt of it strain in the other’s throat, can feel the shift of laughter trying to set itself in against the weight of his arm. He doesn’t blink.

“No,” he says, and he shifts his arm sideways, drawing the friction of his sleeve over Hanamiya’s neck so he can replace the bruising force with the texture of his fingerprints instead. Hanamiya gasps a breath, filling his lungs with desperate haste as the pressure on his windpipe eases momentarily, and Imayoshi spreads his fingers wide to catch that rattle of air against the press of his fingers instead. “I didn’t think about you at all.” He looks at Hanamiya’s face, at the lines of exhaustion dragging at the corners of his mouth and the shadow of unceasing mania shadowed under his eyes, and Imayoshi can see the weeks of waiting like a novel’s worth of smeared ink over Hanamiya’s face, strangling his breathing more effectively than Imayoshi’s fingers are and stealing all that fluid facade that so lit him up the first day he came to this office.

“You thought about me, though,” Imayoshi says, and it isn’t a question, and the dip of Hanamiya’s lashes isn’t an answer. It’s a surrender, submission, as good as if he had bowed his head and dropped to his knees, and Imayoshi’s blood goes to fire in his veins, his breathing catches quick against the cage of his ribs in his chest.

“So.” The words fills the whole of Imayoshi’s mouth, spill warm and round from his lips as he watches Hanamiya’s gaze slide over his face, as he feels the pace of the other’s breathing struggle past the weight of his hold. “You slammed my door.”

Hanamiya gasps a breath, strains his throat on sound. “Yeah,” he spits. “I did.”

“You did,” Imayoshi repeats. His palm is sliding against the shift of Hanamiya’s chest on the effort of his breathing; he can feel the other’s skin right through the thin cloth of his shirt, as if Hanamiya’s blood is an open flame licking and curling past the boundaries of his flesh. He lets his touch slide lower, down against the seam of Hanamiya’s shirt and towards the heavy weight of his jeans clinging to his hips. “Do you remember what I said I’d do if you slammed the door to my office again?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya blurts, his hips jerking forward as if to shove himself closer to Imayoshi’s touch, as if to bridge what minimal gap there still is between their bodies. The movement presses him hard against Imayoshi’s thigh; Imayoshi leans in closer to shove Hanamiya back. “ _Senpai_.”

“You remember,” Imayoshi says. His fingers are sliding down, trailing along the hem of Hanamiya’s shirt; he can feel the other gasping for air under the weight of his fingers. “Tell me.”

“You said--” Hanamiya starts, and Imayoshi presses his thumb in against the front of the other’s pants, hard against the rough metal of the zipper. His touch pins the resistance back against the heat of Hanamiya’s cock; Hanamiya’s expression disintegrates for a moment, his head falling back as his hips rock desperately forward. “Ah, _fuck_.”

“What did I _say_?” Imayoshi repeats, dragging at the pull of the zipper and forcing the button of Hanamiya’s jeans free. “Hanamiya-kun.”

“You said I’d find out how short my genius falls,” Hanamiya says in a rush, and Imayoshi rewards him with pressure at his throat, the force so sharp the last of the other’s words is cut off halfway by the sudden weight.

“I did,” Imayoshi purrs, and Hanamiya’s jeans are falling open for his touch and Hanamiya’s throat is flexing under his hold and he’s warm, he’s radiant, he can feel power spreading electric through all his veins as he hooks a thumb under Hanamiya’s clothes and shoves to force them off the other’s hips. The elastic waistband of Hanamiya’s boxers catches at the head of his cock for a moment, dragging down against the swollen-flushed weight of it, but Imayoshi just pushes harder and the clothes fall free, dragged down by the force of gravity to rumple around Imayoshi’s knee angled hard between Hanamiya’s thighs. Imayoshi draws his touch back up along Hanamiya’s leg, trailing his touch over skin left pale and nearly-translucent by a lack of exposure to the sun, and when his hand slides across to follow the sharp angle of the other’s hip he can see Hanamiya’s lashes flutter even as his mouth is open and straining helplessly for air.

“Right now, for example,” he says, in the most conversational tone he can manage. His palm drags over Hanamiya’s cock, the weight of his touch bearing down against the flushed head for a moment, and Hanamiya jerks again, his expression twisting onto something between pain and pleasure for a moment before Imayoshi pulls his hand away again. “Maybe you are smarter than me.” Another, longer pass; and this time there’s no question of the heat in Hanamiya’s eyes, no uncertainty about the desire that drops those smoky lashes dark over his clear eyes as his throat flexes soundlessly under Imayoshi’s hold. “Maybe you really are a genius.” He trails his fingers down, feeling out the curve of Hanamiya’s heavy-swollen cock under his touch; he can feel it twitch with heat, like it’s answering the weight of his fingertips even without Hanamiya’s conscious control. Imayoshi lets his touch linger, feels the shift of Hanamiya’s body responding to him with reflexive force; and then he lets his grip on the other’s throat ease, frees Hanamiya to gasp an inhale so desperate he chokes on it, his chest seizing on too much air brought into his lungs with too much speed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Imayoshi tells him, speaking clearly so his voice will carry over the sound of Hanamiya’s hacking efforts at air. “Maybe you let me get the upper hand on purpose. Maybe that was all part of your master seduction technique.” He shoves against Hanamiya’s throat again, forcing the other back against the wall to rasp desperate inhales again with his head pinned back to the door behind him. “But your genius doesn’t matter now.”

Imayoshi steadies his feet, braces himself solidly in place; the whole force of his body is bearing Hanamiya back against the door, they’re so close he can feel the desperate shift of Hanamiya’s chest against his, can feel the spill of heat at the other’s lips against the side of his neck. He leans in close, fits his lips against the slick fall of Hanamiya’s hair over his ear; when he speaks his voice is gentle, a whisper, so soft it’s barely audible even to Imayoshi’s own hearing.

“Hanamiya-kun,” he says, and it’s tender, nearly, it pulls into something very nearly appreciation at the back of his tongue. “I’m going to _break_ you.” And then he slides his fingers sideways, and he closes his grip around Hanamiya’s length, and he jerks up in one sudden, fast movement. Hanamiya yelps at the friction, his body spasming against the sudden too-much force; but Imayoshi is pressed close against him, the deliberate angle of his body designed to hold Hanamiya in place even with his legs trembling with the force of his reaction, and Imayoshi doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow. He moves roughly, dragging hard over delicate skin like he’s looking to milk Hanamiya’s orgasm from him by force, and against the other’s ear, hissing against the dark of his hair, he’s talking, spilling words to match the tremor of sound thrumming under his hold on Hanamiya’s throat.

“This is what you asked for,” he says, biting the words off while Hanamiya clutches at his shoulder, at his hip, while Hanamiya attempts to ground himself against Imayoshi’s body with all the desperation of a drowning man. “You came into my class and you cheated on my assignments because you wanted my _attention_ , isn’t that it?” He pauses his stroking for a moment, presses his thumb in hard against the swollen head of Hanamiya’s cock; his touch catches at a droplet of precome, the liquid slicking the path of his movement, and Hanamiya groans against him and grabs a fistful of Imayoshi’s shirtfront.

“You have it,” Imayoshi tells him, and he starts stroking again, turning his head so he can watch the way Hanamiya’s lips part on the broken-off whimpers in his throat, so he can see the way the other’s jaw sets like he’s trying to brace himself against his reaction as Imayoshi roughly jerks him off. “You got what you wanted, Hanamiya-kun.” He tips his head in to weight his forehead against the side of Hanamiya’s, until his lips are almost atop the other’s; the heat of Hanamiya’s breathing fogs his glasses and blurs his vision. “I’m _paying attention_.” And he twists his hand, wringing hard against the stiff curve of Hanamiya’s cock in his grip, and Hanamiya’s eyes roll back, his mouth falls open on the sudden slack relief of pleasure. Imayoshi can see the moan forming itself in his chest, can see the note of orgasm shaping itself on Hanamiya’s tongue; and he tightens his hold at the other’s throat, closing off the possibility of sound at the same moment Hanamiya’s body convulses into relief. Hanamiya’s eyes go wide, his mouth strains for sound Imayoshi won’t let him have, and Imayoshi holds him still against his office door, his fingers forcing the other to silence as he pulls long tremors of pleasure free of the other’s body. Hanamiya quivers against him, pulses of heat spilling over Imayoshi’s fingers and stalling silent at the fingers around his throat; and finally he goes still, his whole body falling slack against the support of the door, and Imayoshi lets his grip ease back from that first aggressive force. Hanamiya rasps an inhale, his throat straining over the sudden rush of air to fill his lungs, and Imayoshi lets his hand slide sideways, lets his fingers curl and cradle at the back of Hanamiya’s neck instead of bearing down against the strain of his throat.

“So, Hanamiya-kun,” he says, letting the words purr over themselves into heat and shadow against the back of his tongue. “Are you having fun yet?”

Hanamiya’s fingers tighten at Imayoshi’s shirt, the force of them pulling the fabric off-center from the other’s shoulders; and then he rattles an inhale, and chokes into a laugh, and Imayoshi is left to smile against the dark of Hanamiya’s hair while the other gasps hysteria against his shoulder.

He’s sure, now, that this quarter is going to be entertaining for the both of them.


	10. Flush

Hanamiya is back three days later.

Imayoshi’s been expecting him. He’s more impressed than anything else with how long the other has managed to wait; there was a weight behind his eyes when he left Imayoshi’s office last, a tension only temporarily sated by the rough use the other gave him. Imayoshi half expected to see him back later that day, or sometime the following morning; by the time he’s closing up his office for the weekend he’s impressed by the other’s patience in spite of himself, at least as entertained by that as by the idea of Hanamiya winding himself to desperation over the days of enforced absence. Imayoshi goes home, and runs his shower hot, and jerks himself off under the spray to the thought of Hanamiya’s wet-slick lips and the shadowy curtain of his hair, and then he goes to bed with a smile clinging to his mouth even as he settles himself in for the comfort of the last weekend before classes begin again.

He’s feeling refreshed by the time Monday arrives. His classes are scheduled for Tuesday and Thursday this quarter, for which he’s grateful; it gives him the first day to indulge in his own research in the blissful quiet of his office, with only the murmur of voices from his fellow graduate students to echo against the quiet halls. Imayoshi takes an hour of reading to himself, lingering over his work while he finishes a cup of tea and considers making a second; and then there’s the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, shoes scuffing as they drag against the linoleum of the floor, and Imayoshi reaches for a bookmark before he’s pushing to his feet to move towards the doorway. Hanamiya draws into sight just as Imayoshi is bracing a hand at the door in expectation of his arrival; their eyes meet for a moment, Hanamiya’s gaze fixed to intensity on Imayoshi’s face, and Imayoshi steps fractionally to the side to make an invitation of his half-open door.

Hanamiya doesn’t run. Imayoshi respects him the more for his understanding of their unspoken arrangement, for the relative calm he exhibits in his even pace as he approaches the other’s half-shut door. It makes for an interaction like a dance, of Hanamiya stepping through the entrance just as Imayoshi weights his touch against the edge to urge it shut, and then the latch is clicking into place and Imayoshi is turning back to consider Hanamiya in front of him.

He looks better than he did last. After the break his eyes were shadowed, his mouth drawn, his jaw tense with uncertainty; he looks warmer, now, hotter, as if his blood is coming alight from the inside out. If winter break infused him with icy uncertainty he’s melted out of it now; he looks like fire, like the desperate need behind his eyes is crackling with an open force of its own. His gaze isn’t pleading; it’s demanding, it’s insistent, it’s holding to Imayoshi’s face from under the fall of Hanamiya’s dark hair and making a decree of what Hanamiya wants.

Unfortunately for him, Imayoshi has already decided what _he_ wants.

“Down,” he says easily, coupling the command with a lift of his chin to counterbalance the aggressive downward angle of Hanamiya’s. Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his forehead creases on a moment of confusion, and Imayoshi lets his eyes narrow, lets his expression flicker into something with more force behind it as the facade of calm he’s wearing slips slightly. “Hanamiya-kun. Get down.”

Hanamiya’s expression twists, his mouth wrenching itself around a frown. “What? Senpai, I don’t--”

“ _Down_ ,” Imayoshi says, and he’s reaching out to make a fist of Hanamiya’s coat, to pull sharply sideways and drag the other off the balance of his feet. Hanamiya stumbles, his hands coming up in a desperate attempt to catch himself, and Imayoshi shoves him down, not giving the other a chance to catch himself before his knees land hard against the floor under him. Hanamiya hisses, pain breaking free of his lips and creasing his forehead, but Imayoshi doesn’t wait for that reaction either; he’s letting Hanamiya’s coat go instead, abandoning his hold at the other’s clothes to reach for the far better suggestion of his ink-dark hair instead.

“There,” he says, shoving his fingers into the tangle of Hanamiya’s hair and making a fist of the strands so he can pull the other’s head sharply back. “That’s better.”

Hanamiya scoffs, a rough sound that tears far in the back of his throat. “Really?” he says, his voice only slightly strained by the far-back tilt of his head under Imayoshi’s hold. “This is the best you could come up with? Me sucking you off? That’s a bit pedestrian of a fantasy for you, don’t you think, senpai?”

“There’s something to be said for simplicity,” Imayoshi informs him. Unfastening his pants one-handed is slight challenge, but it hardly delays him at all; the cloth is still falling open to his touch without any noticeable delay, loosening around his hips so he can urge it down and free by the few inches of mobility he needs. “Not everything has to be complicated.” He lets his pants go and reaches out to press his thumb against the part of Hanamiya’s lips instead. “Open your mouth.”

Hanamiya makes a sound far in the back of his throat, a huff of an exhale like a scoffing laugh; but Imayoshi just presses harder, his thumb slipping past Hanamiya’s lips to slide against the edge of his teeth instead, and Hanamiya lets his jaw fall open without any more resistance. The corner of his mouth is pulled up into a smirk, his lips are tense around the edge of amusement in his throat; but he’s obeying, at least, and that’s all Imayoshi really needs from him. He lets his thumb press in harder, weighting down against the wet slick of Hanamiya’s tongue inside his mouth, and Hanamiya angles his head fractionally to the side and presses his lips closed around Imayoshi’s touch so he can suck deliberate pressure in over the other’s skin. His eyes are brilliant with unvoiced laughter, his lips curling to a grin so Imayoshi can feel the threat of teeth against his skin; Imayoshi presses against his tongue for a moment, feeling the dip and give of the wet heat inside the other’s mouth, and then he draws his hand back, keeping his hold on Hanamiya’s hair with one hand while he reaches for himself with the other.

He’s not completely hard yet. It helps to have Hanamiya on his knees as he is, helps to have his fingers warm and slick with the damp from Hanamiya’s parted lips; but it still takes him a moment of palming against the soft resistance of his cock before his body stirs itself into full heat. In front of him Hanamiya is batting his lashes, is lowering his gaze to come dark from under the shadow of them as he lets his mouth fall slack and open on suggestion; and Imayoshi watches him, gazing down at the damp of the other’s lips and the shine of his eyes as Hanamiya angles himself into the most deliberately pornographic expression he can find. He’s teasing, Imayoshi knows, he can see it in the tension of laughter at the corner of Hanamiya’s mouth and the sparkle of amusement behind the glittering gold of his eyes; but Imayoshi just keeps staring at him, keeps his attention scanning over the put-on seduction of Hanamiya’s features while his cock stirs and swells against his hand. Hanamiya’s hair is soft under his fingers, slick and dark like the oil it sometimes resembles; Imayoshi has to tighten his grip further just to maintain his hold, and when he pulls back Hanamiya lets himself be drawn with his throat trembling visibly on the barely-voiced laughter in his chest. Hanamiya’s tipping back over his heels, now, his spine curving him back like he’s a bow drawn taut by Imayoshi’s hold; and Imayoshi holds him there, bracing him into the uncomfortable aesthetic of the position, while he sets his feet and keep working over the hardening length of his cock in his grip.

It takes Hanamiya a few minutes to realize. For the first several seconds he remains as he is, arched back by Imayoshi’s hold on his hair and with his lashes dipped and his lips parted in expectation of friction that doesn’t come. It’s only as Imayoshi keeps stroking over himself without easing his hold that his forehead begins to crease, that the half-lidded shadows of seduction in his gaze flicker into the tension of uncertain suspicion. Imayoshi is just starting to fall into an easy rhythm when Hanamiya closes his mouth on the weight of a frown, his eyes narrowing with understanding as he glares up at Imayoshi.

“Fuck you, senpai,” he spits, hissing the words to harshness past the edge of his gritted teeth. “You push me down on my knees and you don’t even have the decency to fuck my throat?”

Imayoshi twists his grip on Hanamiya’s hair, increasing the pressure until Hanamiya’s head tips back by another inch and the air in his lungs hisses past the press of his teeth. “Open your mouth,” he says again, command steady and shadowed on his tongue.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Hanamiya growls again. “I don’t have to let you do this to me.”

“No,” Imayoshi agrees immediately. “But you will.” He meets Hanamiya’s furious gaze, holds the other’s attention as his practiced grip slides smooth over his cock. He can feel the pressure of it building low in his stomach, can feel the heat of the friction stirring hot into his veins. “Open your mouth, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya glares at him. There’s hatred in his eyes, anger staining the high arch of his cheekbones to flushed pink over his sallow complexion, and for a moment Imayoshi thinks he might disobey, thinks the force of humiliation might prove too much for Hanamiya’s strange variety of pride to bear. That golden gaze drops from Imayoshi’s eyes, falling down the whole steep perspective of the other’s body to the steady stroke of his hand over himself, and for a moment Hanamiya is just still like that, staring at the shift of Imayoshi jerking himself off in front of his face. Imayoshi doesn’t still his movement, doesn’t speed to make a show of his action; he just keeps moving, letting the rhythm of his strokes build inexorable heat in his veins. Hanamiya’s mouth twists, his cheeks burn to crimson frustration; and then he lifts his gaze to Imayoshi’s face, his eyes crackling like they’re a fire throwing off snapping sparks into falling dusk, and he opens his mouth into the open pleading Imayoshi wanted to see in the first place.

“Like that,” Imayoshi says. “Good boy” and Hanamiya is glaring at him, his whole face is flushed red with embarrassment and anger in nearly equal parts, but he’s not looking away from Imayoshi’s gaze, and Imayoshi can feel the force of that building low in his stomach and tightening the weight of his balls in close against the base of his cock. His breathing is coming faster, he can feel his heart beating quicker in his chest with every breath he takes, and still Hanamiya is gazing up at him, on his knees with his hands slack at his sides and his lips wet and soft and waiting for Imayoshi’s use. Imayoshi can see the warm flush of the inside of Hanamiya’s mouth, can see the shift of the other’s tongue as he swallows back the saliva collecting from the open angle of his lips; and against his grip his cock twitches, the softer give of the head swelling to the full heat of inevitability as his breathing catches in his chest, as the pressure of possibility hardens and tenses into certainty at the base of his spine.

“Fuck,” Imayoshi says, his hand seizing tighter against his cock to draw it down, to angle the stiff heat of it out and away from his body and towards Hanamiya’s open mouth. “Hanamiya-kun” and he’s coming, his whole body pulsing forward in a drawn-out wave of heat as his cock spurts wet stripes across Hanamiya’s face. Most of it ends up over the other’s mouth, falling in lines of white against the damp part of Hanamiya’s lips, but some stripes across the flushed red of his cheek, and as Imayoshi shudders through the last tremor of pleasure one long spill catches against the dark of Hanamiya’s lashes pressed tight closed over his eyes. For a moment Imayoshi is left panting, his heart racing in his chest and his cock flushed hot against his grip and Hanamiya kneeling in front of him with Imayoshi’s come striping all across the lines of his face. Then Hanamiya closes his mouth, presses wet lips together as he swallows hard, and “ _Fuck_ ,” he blurts, his tone turning the word raw and vicious at the back of his tongue.

“Stay there,” Imayoshi snaps as Hanamiya starts to lift a hand to his face to wipe at the wet across his skin. Hanamiya goes still, one hand caught in midair as his mouth curves down on frustration. His jaw is working, Imayoshi can almost see the protest forming itself against the back of his tongue; but Imayoshi doesn’t have any intention of giving him a chance to voice it. He pulls back instead, dragging Hanamiya’s head as far back as it will go, until the other hisses and has to throw his hand out behind him to catch his balance as his forehead creases on frustration. For a moment Imayoshi just looks at him, at the sticky damp lacing over the stark contrast of Hanamiya’s features in front of him; and then he reaches out, touching his fingers to Hanamiya’s cheek just as the other takes a breath and opens his mouth to offer the beginnings of protest.

“Senpai--” he starts, and then Imayoshi’s fingers are sliding over his skin and his voice breaks off into startled silence, his words stalled in his throat as if Imayoshi’s touch was a knife to sever through the vibration of his vocal chords over sound. His mouth is still open, his throat still tense; but his voice is absent, the sound gone as Imayoshi drags his fingers across Hanamiya’s face to wipe at the worst of the mess he’s made of the other. He presses his thumb along the line of Hanamiya’s cheekbones, catches his pinky at the corner of the other’s mouth; he even leans in closer to hold Hanamiya very still while he drags his thumb in against the delicate weight of the other’s lashes and the shadow caught at the delicate skin just under his eyes. Hanamiya hisses an inhale at the contact, his strained-back throat struggling over the air as he takes it in, and as Imayoshi draws his hand away the other opens his eyes, slowly, the weight of his lashes lifting as he fixes Imayoshi with a set stare that says he knows what’s coming as well as Imayoshi does.

Imayoshi meets Hanamiya’s gaze, holds his attention on those bronze-gold eyes as he reaches out to touch his sticky thumb against the other’s lips. Hanamiya’s forehead creases at the contact, his jaw tenses for a moment; and “Open,” Imayoshi says, dominance as resonant in his veins as the heat of his satisfaction, and Hanamiya opens his mouth, surrendering to the push of the other’s fingers even as his cheeks flush dark with self-consciousness.

Imayoshi drags his thumb against Hanamiya’s lip, catches the weight of it at the corner of the other’s mouth. “Suck,” he orders, and Hanamiya presses his lips together and sucks against the friction of Imayoshi’s touch against his tongue. Imayoshi can feel the drag of Hanamiya’s tongue dragging across his skin, can feel the force of the other’s throat working as he sucks first one and then the next of Imayoshi’s fingers clean, and against his hips his easing erection stirs with a hint of interest again, even if it lacks the strength to follow through on the shudder of pleasure that runs down Imayoshi’s spine. It’s just an aftershock instead, a last quiver of appreciation as Imayoshi watches Hanamiya’s lips and tongue work his fingers back to clean, and he’s still warm with it when he draws his touch free and reaches to pat gently against the side of Hanamiya’s cheek.

“Good boy,” Imayoshi purrs, and he lets his hold on Hanamiya’s hair ease, lets the fist he’s made of the dark locks soften into an almost-affectionate stroke down against the back of the other’s neck as Hanamiya straightens to a somewhat more comfortable angle. Hanamiya’s eyes are still fixed on Imayoshi’s face, his jaw is still set on the force of frustration; but his lips are damp and flushed with color, and Imayoshi doesn’t have to look down to know how hard Hanamiya is inside his straining jeans. “Keep on behaving well and someday I’ll see how well you come around my fingers.”

Hanamiya’s throat works over the force of his swallow. “Is that before or after I get your cock down my throat?” There’s a beat, a moment of gold eyes staring pointed silence up at Imayoshi, and then: “ _Senpai_.”

Imayoshi’s mouth tugs up at one corner, a grin threatening the edge of his expression. “Well,” he says, and steps back so he can pull his clothes back into order around his hips. “You’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t you?”


	11. Condense

Imayoshi was planning to go to the bar alone.

It’s an indulgence he likes to take, on those evenings he can free himself from the demands of his lesson plans or the more engaging and more time-consuming pursuit of his research. He appreciates the quality of the drinks he can obtain there as opposed to the simple creations he makes for himself at home, and there’s an enjoyment to be had from being in such a public space with no demands on his attention beyond what he makes for himself. It’s easy to rebuff those few optimistic strangers who are interested in the flirting that Imayoshi isn’t intrigued by, and there’s always more than enough to watch if he pays attention to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. He’s been looking forward to the idle amusement during the brief distance of the walk to bring him here, has been considering his options for the evening since he settled on a chair in the darkened corner of the room where he’s less likely to draw unwanted attention; he’s just relaxing into his seat when his drink arrives, and he’s just settling himself in to people-watch when there’s movement by the door and a gust of wind to indicates a newcomer.

Imayoshi wouldn’t usually care. He intended to watch the movement of those people already settled, after the effect of alcohol and the impact of their company has eased them from the stiff, scripted formality that comes with their first few minutes in the bar. But when he glances up at the latest arrival his gaze catches on the oil-slick fall of black hair, and on the familiar heavy weight of lashes dipping over gold-dark eyes, and Imayoshi can feel his mouth tighten on the threat of a smile before he ducks his head to turn his attention back to his drink before Hanamiya looks over and sees him.

Apparently he won’t be just watching tonight, after all.

Imayoshi doesn’t look up from his attention to the glass in front of him as Hanamiya moves forward from the door to angle himself over the edge of the bar counter, doesn’t make any kind of eye contact with the other. There’s no wave of greeting, no indication that passes between them that they’ve seen each other. But Imayoshi is sure regardless, without any need for overt recognition, and so he’s not surprised when the scuff of footsteps approaching his table announces a newcomer.

“Why, senpai,” Hanamiya purrs, his voice dipping to heavy syrup as he catches his foot against the chair on the other side of Imayoshi’s table to kick it wide of the surface. “What a coincidence to find you here.”

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi offers back, looking up over the top of his glasses to see the lopsided drag of Hanamiya’s smile at his lips. He lifts his glass for a sip to let the disguise of the liquid cover the tension caught at his own mouth. “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

“You know me,” Hanamiya says, setting his glass down on the far side of Imayoshi’s table and dropping to sit sideways in the chair across from the other. When he kicks his leg out his ankle runs up hard against Imayoshi’s shin. “Always getting into trouble.”

“You do have a predilection for vice,” Imayoshi agrees fluidly. He tips his knee out under the shadow of the table to push back against Hanamiya’s leg against his. “What’s the plan for this evening?”

“Oh, you know.” Hanamiya braces his elbow against the edge of the table and catches his hand against his jawline; when he lifts his drink to his lips it’s without breaking eye contact as he touches the edge of his tongue to the sugar caught at the edge of the glass before following it with a sip of the liquid inside. “I thought I’d go out, see if I couldn’t find a good time for myself.” He sets the glass in his hand back down at the table. His mouth is wet with the spill of alcohol over his tongue. “I didn’t think to find my senpai waiting for me.”

Imayoshi snorts a laugh. “I was hardly waiting for you.”

“Oh?” Hanamiya tips his head to the side so a long strand of hair slides free of his ear to fall across his face. “Are you claiming us running into each other here is truly a beautiful coincidence and nothing more?”

“Of course I’m not,” Imayoshi says, and takes another slow sip of his drink. Hanamiya’s gaze tracks the movement of his mouth against the glass, trails the shift of the other’s throat as he swallows. Imayoshi can feel the alcohol burning into a low simmer of heat deep in his stomach. “But _I’m_ not the one who came looking for _you_.”

Hanamiya’s smile cracks wider, sparkling bright behind the shadow of his lashes. “Oh, senpai,” he purrs, and he’s leaning in over the table, cutting through the dim illumination against the surface with the curtain of his hair and the angle of his shoulders. “I can’t fool you for a second, can I?”

That hardly requires an answer, and Imayoshi doesn’t give it one. He raises an eyebrow instead, along with the corner of his mouth, and Hanamiya grins up at him from under the fall of his hair with a sharpness on the expression that says he understands. They stare at each other for a moment, Hanamiya tipping in low over the table and Imayoshi looking down the bridge of his nose at the other; and then Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his attention falling ostentatiously to the weight of the glass in Imayoshi’s hold, and when he gasps an inhale the concern on it is so put-upon Imayoshi can almost taste the saccharine tang of it on his tongue.

“Oh, senpai, your glass is dripping.” Hanamiya reaches out to touch the side of the other’s drink as if to demonstrate; his fingertips catch against the condensation-damp glass and pull against it as if to drag the liquid down to join the ring of wet collecting at the table. “You should really have a napkin for that.” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand to withdraw a square of white without pulling his fingers away from Imayoshi’s glass; when he looks up it’s through his lashes, the shadow of them casting his gaze dark with meaning as he offers the napkin across the table. “Good thing I have one with me.”

Imayoshi glances at the napkin, at the angle of Hanamiya’s fingers pressing against it and the suggestion of a misplaced crease along the middle speaking to the ink he’s sure is marking out numbers against the inside in Hanamiya’s sharp-edged handwriting. He considers it for a moment, considers the implication of accepting it; and finally, without looking away to Hanamiya’s face: “It’s inappropriate for me to be in a relationship with one of my students.”

“I’m not your student,” Hanamiya answers, immediately; and then, coupled with a cough of a laugh that seems to tear out of him more than be voluntary: “And this isn’t a relationship.”

Imayoshi looks to his face at that. Hanamiya is still watching him, his fingers curling into a grip against the base of Imayoshi’s glass, now; his eyes are darker than they were, his pupils flaring out to swallow up whatever color was clinging to the outside edges of his irises. His mouth is still wet, his lips still tugging up hard at one corner; he looks the same as he did, as if he has no particular sense of having said anything out of keeping with the present moment.

“Ah,” Imayoshi says, and he reaches to close his hand hard around the napkin in Hanamiya’s hold. “You’re right.” He pulls the paper free, and lifts his glass to slide it free of Hanamiya’s grasp; when he tosses the napkin down it catches against the ring of damp already on the table, sticking to the print of his cup as the liquid soaks into the thin white. “It’s not.”

The irritation on Hanamiya’s face as Imayoshi sets his glass back down is the best thing he’s seen all night.


	12. Distinct

Imayoshi lets Hanamiya wait.

He left the bar with the bleeding ink of the wet napkin fitting against the inside of his pocket, where he could catch and tear at the damp-thin of the material under his fingers over the distance of the walk back to his apartment. It ended up on the counter, crumpled almost past recognition and left to dry for the whole of the next day, while Imayoshi works on his research and prepares his next week’s lesson plan and doesn’t leave the house to give Hanamiya any opportunity at all to run into him. Sunday passes as calmly, in a gentle haze of focus and dedicated work, until when Imayoshi finally closes his textbooks and leans back from his desk it’s running late into the evening, the time slipping towards double digits without concern for the return to classes the morning will bring.

Imayoshi considers the clock for some time. It’s late, and the last thing he had to eat was during the middle of the day, the simplicity of a sandwich consumed without thought over the array of papers spread out in front of him; he ought to make dinner for himself, ought to eat and take a shower and go to bed to get enough sleep for the start of the week tomorrow. But there’s a tension in his chest, a knot just between his shoulders like there’s unresolved electricity forming along his spine, and when he turns his head towards the kitchen it’s the counter and not the fridge he’s looking at.

The napkin unfolds easily, after a day and a half to dry after the abuse Imayoshi’s wet cup offered to it. The ink inside has smeared from the damp, expanding the dark of Hanamiya’s handwriting out to saturate the napkin in a multicolored ring as the components of the ink separate into individual colors; but the numbers are spread wide over the span of white, and even with the ink as it is they’re easy to parse as what Hanamiya intended them as. Imayoshi pulls his phone from his pocket, types in the number without bothering to enter it as a contact, and he leans in over the counter to brace his elbow at the support as he hits the _Call_ button and waits for Hanamiya to pick up.

It takes a few minutes. Imayoshi wonders distantly if Hanamiya is in the shower, or eating a late dinner of his own; he wonders how long the phone will need to ring before Hanamiya picks it up, wonders if Hanamiya will suspect the caller’s identity before he answers. He considers how long he’s willing to let his call ring -- three rings? Five? He’s hardly going to leave a voicemail -- and then there’s a _click_ of sound against his ear, and a huff of an exhale against the speaker, and “Yeah?” in a bored tone Imayoshi’s never heard Hanamiya use with him before.

Imayoshi doesn’t introduce himself. He just lets his elbow brace harder against the counter, lets his weight tip forward against the support as he presses his phone in closer against his ear. “Hanamiya-kun.”

The breath Hanamiya takes is audible, a startled hiss of an inhale that speaks better to his shock than anything else would. “Senpai,” he says, and his voice has regained all the breathless respect Imayoshi is used to hearing, as if the realization of who is calling him has melted away the petulant rebellion from his tone for the first moment of surprise. “You called.”

“I did,” Imayoshi says. “How was your weekend?”

“Boring,” Hanamiya answers immediately, without any attempt at equivocation or teasing. “Yours?”

“Productive.” Imayoshi presses his hand over the napkin in front of him, smoothing the rough edges of it down against the surface of the counter. “My research is going quite well. I may have made a breakthrough this afternoon.”

“Good for you,” Hanamiya says, sounding like he means entirely the opposite. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to that, then, instead of wasting time socializing?”

“No,” Imayoshi says without letting his voice rise to match the irritated heights Hanamiya’s is skipping to. “It’s important to unwind and have some fun, after all.”

Hanamiya huffs an exhale hard enough to crackle static against Imayoshi’s ear. “Thanks,” he drawls, sarcasm heavy on his tone. “I’m glad I merited a place _somewhere_ on your busy schedule.”

“Yes, you should be,” Imayoshi agrees with far more sincerity than Hanamiya used. He grins unseen as Hanamiya huffs against the phone again; he sounds irritated, like he’s thinking about protesting, but he hasn’t hung up yet, and that’s as much compliance as Imayoshi needs from him. “Are you busy, Hanamiya-kun?”

There’s a pause. Imayoshi can almost imagine the set of Hanamiya’s jaw, can almost picture the crease of frustration at his forehead and the give of curiosity at his lips. He slides his fingers across a crease in the soft paper under his touch, lingering over the texture as if it’s Hanamiya’s skin so stained with ink instead of the damp give of a cheap napkin from a bar.

Finally Hanamiya sighs, his exhale loud enough that Imayoshi can hear surrender spelled clearly under the shift of it. “What do you want, senpai?” His voice drops into a purr, the words on his tongue unfold into the weight of suggestion. “Should I come by your apartment for a visit?”

“No,” Imayoshi informs him. “It’s late, and I have class to teach in the morning.”

Hanamiya’s huff is frustrated again. “What _do_ you want, then?”

“It _is_ late,” Imayoshi says again. The napkin is pulling under his fingertips, the creases working free to smoothness as he drags his touch across them with idle attention. “Nearly time for bed, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you--”

“Do you ever touch yourself before bed, Hanamiya-kun?” Imayoshi asks, the blunt force of the question landing with enough impact to shatter Hanamiya’s words to quiet. Hanamiya’s breath gusts against the phone, the sound carrying the force of understanding better than words would, and Imayoshi smiles and tips his head up to gaze at his kitchen light as he continues. “Not every night, maybe, but sometimes?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Hanamiya says, and Imayoshi can hear the thrum of heat on the sound, can hear the shudder of want tense in the other’s throat. “ _Senpai_.”

“I know I do,” Imayoshi says, still holding to his casual, conversational tone. “When it’s been a long day, or when I’m feeling particularly imaginative. You know what I mean.” It’s a statement, not a question; he lets the weight of it settle into the space between them, lets the quiet go taut for a moment of expectation before he takes his next breath. “Do you want to tonight, Hanamiya-kun?”

“Yes,” Hanamiya says, immediately, compliance coming fast in his voice; Imayoshi can imagine him rocking forward, can almost hear the forward cant of Hanamiya’s shoulders in the tremor on the other’s voice. “Yes, senpai.”

“Good,” Imayoshi purrs. “Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Imayoshi is almost disappointed -- it would have been pleasant to order Hanamiya into a bathroom for this, to urge him to the edge of exhibitionism at Imayoshi’s command -- but this has different possibilities that come with it, and he’s not unhappy to have access to those. “Go to your room and shut the door.”

Hanamiya obeys immediately. Imayoshi can hear the scuff of his dragging footsteps, can pick out the rushed pace of them as Hanamiya crosses the space of his home; when there’s the slam of a door to mark obedience Imayoshi goes on speaking rapidly, without waiting for Hanamiya to give him verbal confirmation. “Take your clothes off.”

“The phone--”

“Switch it to speaker,” Imayoshi says. “Keep it close so I can hear you.”

Hanamiya gusts a breath. “Okay,” he says. There’s a beep, an electronic notice of a switch in setting, and then the faint hum of white noise that comes with being on speakerphone as the microphone begins to pick up the ambient sounds of the room. Imayoshi can hear the rattle of Hanamiya’s phone hitting a hard surface -- a desk, maybe, so he can have his hands free -- and then, more distantly, the rustle of fabric, the gust of a breath as Hanamiya struggles out of his clothes. It’s impossible to pick out most of the details -- a shirt sounds much the same as socks, Imayoshi can’t get a clear image of what Hanamiya is doing from that alone -- but the sound of a zipper coming down is loud in comparison, clear to hear and as clear to offer a vivid image to the space of Imayoshi’s imagination. He listens to Hanamiya’s breathing, hears how rushed with heat it’s gone, and as he picks out the sound of the other’s footfalls stepping free of his jeans:

“Lie down on your bed,” Imayoshi says, pressing his hand flat to the napkin against his counter. “On your back. Is your phone close enough for you to hear me?”

“Yes,” Hanamiya says, his voice slightly dimmed by the effect of the speakerphone but still clear enough for Imayoshi to hear how fast the other’s breathing is pulling around his words. The squeak of springs, the rustle of blankets; Hanamiya huffs an exhale as he settles himself, sounding like the air in his room is going thin with the sound of Imayoshi’s voice to push it aside. “I can hear you, senpai.”

“Good.” Imayoshi shifts in his lean against the counter, tipping in closer so his balance is steady. “Are you hard, Hanamiya-kun?”

Hanamiya’s laugh is a breathless, shattered thing, full of raw edges like broken glass tearing in the back of his throat. “ _Yes_.”

“Good,” Imayoshi purrs. “Touch yourself. Go slow.”

He can hear the breath Hanamiya takes, can hear the sound of the other filling his lungs with a long inhale of anticipation. He stares at the napkin in front of him without seeing it; his vision has gone elsewhere, is pinned to the catch of Hanamiya’s voice on the other end of the line to paint pale skin, oil-slick hair, elegant fingers curling into a tense grip around the base of a dark-flushed cock. He can see the slide of the other’s fingers in the huff of Hanamiya’s breathing, in the plaintive edge on his exhale that turns the simple process of breath into something like a plea stripped of any coherency beyond the low, instinctive communication of sound.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says, hearing his voice dropping lower, making no attempt to pull it back to level. “Are you thinking about me touching you?”

“Yes,” Hanamiya says instantly. “Yes, always, I always do.”

“Mm.” Imayoshi takes a breath, lets it slide slow out his nose. “For how long?”

“Since your office.” Hanamiya shudders an exhale. “The first time. With my assignment.”

“While you were still my student?” Imayoshi asks. “That’s inappropriate, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya groans, a raw, straining note far in the back of his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“You don’t sound very sorry,” Imayoshi tells him. “Go faster.” He shifts at the counter again; his pants are clinging close to the swell of his cock, he can feel the heat of his arousal flooding his veins and rushing his heartbeat faster in his chest, but he doesn’t reach down to unfasten his fly. “What did you imagine, Hanamiya-kun?”

“You,” Hanamiya says, the word falling so fast from his lips there’s no time for any additional clarification. “In your office. At the bar. Calling me up in front of class for cheating.”

Imayoshi’s eyebrows go up. “In front of the whole class?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Imayoshi can hear Hanamiya lick his lips, the motion is so rushed and wet. “I thought about you pushing me down over your desk in the middle of lecture.”

“And making an example of you?” Imayoshi asks. Hanamiya’s breathing is coming pantingly fast on the other end of the line; he can imagine the arch of the other’s spine, can picture the desperate flex of Hanamiya’s legs to urge his body higher off the sheets to meet the rushed stroke of his hand. “What did you think about me doing to you?”

“Fucking me,” Hanamiya says immediately, without any time to allow himself equivocation or embarrassment. “I wanted you to fuck me in front of everyone.”

Imayoshi can feel his mouth threatening on a smile. “Is that what you wanted me to do?”

“Yeah,” Hanamiya gasps. “Maybe with your fingers in my mouth to keep me quiet.”

“Or around your throat,” Imayoshi purrs. “You have a _filthy_ mind, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya moans. “ _Yeah_.”

“I like that,” Imayoshi tells him. “Do you have lube there?”

“Hhh,” Hanamiya offers by way of response.

“Good.” Imayoshi adjusts his glasses. “Use it.”

Hanamiya makes a sound, something faint and almost wounded in the back of his throat; but there’s no subsequent protest, just the hiss of his breathing and the squeak of his mattress as he shifts. Imayoshi listens to the rustle of Hanamiya’s motion, to the shift of blankets and bed as he fumbles to obey; and then there’s a huff of relief, and the sound of a body falling back against the support of a mattress beneath it.

“Be rough with yourself,” Imayoshi tells Hanamiya while he’s listening to the pace of the other’s breathing and imagining the slick spill of liquid over long fingers. “Pretend it’s me.”

“Wish it was,” Hanamiya says.

Imayoshi smiles against the receiver of the phone. “I know,” he says. “Let me hear you fuck yourself, Hanamiya-kun.” Hanamiya makes a noise, a half-voiced laugh in the back of his throat; and then another, lower this time, resonant and helpless with the tension in his chest. Imayoshi can imagine the force that goes with that sound, can picture the arch of Hanamiya’s spine as his fingers force his body open, and he’s humming approval as Hanamiya gasps, not caring if the sound he’s making is loud enough for the other to hear or not.

“Like that,” Imayoshi tells him. “Use two fingers. As deep as you can go.”

“Oh god,” Hanamiya pants. “Senpai.”

“Keep going.” Imayoshi’s fingers curl in on themselves, his body echoing the movement of his imagination, where he’s watching Hanamiya pump into himself at a pace driven more by Imayoshi’s desire than Hanamiya’s own choices. “Harder. Jerk yourself off too.”

“Fuck,” Hanamiya gasps, and there’s the sound of his bed shifting, the tell for the movement of a leg or the flex of an arm. “I’m not gonna _last_.”

“I know,” Imayoshi says. “I don’t want you to last, I want you to _come_.” Hanamiya shudders over his moan, the sound skipping high and whining in his throat, and Imayoshi keeps talking, pitching his voice lower so Hanamiya will feel it more than hear it, so he’ll have to struggle to make out the details of Imayoshi’s speech over the pant of his own breathing. “I want to hear you, Hanamiya-kun, you’re going to do what I tell you to and you’re going to come and I’m going to listen to you moaning for me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya hisses. “Are you jerking off to me right now?”

Imayoshi presses his free hand flat to the counter, over the rumple of the napkin before him. “No.”

Hanamiya whines. “Are you _going_ to?”

Imayoshi’s mouth twists, threatening the tug of a smile. “Yes.”

Hanamiya groans his exhale. “Okay.” There’s the sound of the bed shifting again, the rustle of blankets falling in line with the rhythm of continuing movement. “That’s fine.”

“It is,” Imayoshi agrees. “Are you going to come for me, Hanamiya-kun?”

Hanamiya huffs hard. “I’m _trying_ , jesus senpai, let me--”

“Harder,” Imayoshi orders, and Hanamiya groans desperation. “Stroke faster. Imagine me shoving you down over my desk, Hanamiya-kun, imagine it’s my fingers inside you.” Hanamiya makes a shattered noise and Imayoshi continues, pressing as mercilessly with his words as he would if he had his hands on Hanamiya right now. “You’re not going fast enough. I’d be rougher with you, Hanamiya-kun, if it were me you would have come screaming minutes ago whether you wanted to or not.”

“Oh,” Hanamiya pants. “Oh, god, senpai.”

“Harder,” Imayoshi tells him. The napkin under his hand is crumpling to his grip, is collapsing under the fist he’s making of his hold. “Deeper. Imagine it’s my cock, Hanamiya-kun, imagine me coming into you, can you feel it?”

“ _Senpai_ ,” Hanamiya wails, and Imayoshi can hear the strain on his voice, can hear the want so desperate it nearly sounds like a plea for mercy, like desire gone over some corner into near-terror in the strain of Hanamiya’s chest.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says, his voice perfectly level, his words perfectly clear. “Come for me” and Hanamiya does, his voice breaking wide open on the agonized moan of heat he offers for the catch of his phone receiver. Imayoshi can hear the shudders of pleasure carried in the gasp of the other’s breathing, can imagine the tremors in Hanamiya’s body as he quivers himself into relief from the tension built so high in him; his skin must be slick with sweat, his face must be flushed with heat. Imayoshi can picture the drift of Hanamiya’s lashes, can see the tangle of the other’s hair against his gasping lips, can imagine the splash of come smeared across his stomach and the midline of his chest; and he shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, and sighs himself into calm.

“That’s all for tonight,” he says, while Hanamiya is still panting for air, while coherency is still well out of reach for the other. “Goodnight, Hanamiya-kun.” And he’s pulling the phone away from his ear, and closing out of the call before he can hear more than the start of the outraged “ _Senpai_ ” Hanamiya leads off with. The call ends, Imayoshi’s phone returns to the start screen, and Imayoshi powers it down immediately, before Hanamiya has a chance to call him back. He waits until the screen has gone black, until the line of communication is wholly severed; and then he sets his phone on the counter, and unclenches his fingers from around the crumpled napkin, and leaves both where they lie as he turns to make his way to the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

By the time he’s done revisiting his call, he’s going to have plenty to clean up.


	13. Responsive

Imayoshi’s phone buzzes while he’s in the middle of dinner.

It’s been two days since his phone call with Hanamiya, a span of time uninterrupted by either unprompted visitors during Imayoshi’s office hours or phone calls in the later hours of the evening. Imayoshi suspects Hanamiya to be sulking, frustrated and out-of-sorts after Imayoshi hung up on him over the weekend; but Imayoshi has his classes to think of, and his research to occupy him, and if he thinks of Hanamiya it’s in the darkness of his bedroom or the steam of his shower, and that consideration goes wholly unacknowledged to the other. Imayoshi has been wondering if Hanamiya won’t sustain petulant silence for days, weeks, months, maybe, wondering if he’s thinking to win out over his desires via an application of the brittle pride Imayoshi has seen in his self-proclamations of genius and the sharp tilt of his head; but that’s not Hanamiya’s goal after all, or maybe he just cracks much sooner than he expected to, because it’s not even Wednesday when Imayoshi’s phone hums, and he knows who is it before he opens it to check.

It’s not a call. It’s a text message, arrived from the _Hanamiya-kun_ Imayoshi added to his contacts early Monday morning from the call record the night before; Imayoshi opens it without looking at the preview text displayed. There’s hardly any text to read in any case; it’s just a single line, a row of dark letters against the gently glowing backlighting of Imayoshi’s phone screen.

_Feeling bored tonight, senpai?_

It’s an offer. There’s no question what Hanamiya is requesting, no doubt in Imayoshi’s mind what he’s meant to do; read the text, maybe smile indulgently, hit the _Call_ button to stage a reprise of their weekend interaction. But Imayoshi’s not interested in simple repetition, and he’s even less interested in doing what Hanamiya expects; so he read the text message, and looks at the checkbox that indicates to Hamamiya that he’s received the text, and he doesn’t respond.

The follow-up comes a few minutes later, with so much impatience behind the letters Imayoshi can all but hear them strain in Hanamiya’s throat. _Do you have something better to do?_ followed very rapidly by _Or someone?_ Imayoshi scrolls through the messages, reading them over without replying, and Hanamiya continues without waiting for any kind of feedback: _I’m a lot more fun than anything else you might do, senpai_.

Imayoshi waits. There’s a pause -- shorter than the first, barely thirty seconds -- and then: _What the fuck?_ short and clipped on a line all its own. _What the hell are you doing that you can’t spare half a minute to reply?_ The currently typing icon appears immediately, this time, without even the illusion of patience. _Are you bored with me now, is that it? Should I go and find someone else to play with?_

Imayoshi settles back in his seat as he reads over the messages. He makes no move to respond, just watches the display of the icons in front of him. Hanamiya starts to type something else; stops himself, goes silent. There’s a long pause. Imayoshi wonders if Hanamiya has truly lost his temper, if he’s gone stubbornly silent in the face of Imayoshi’s unresponsiveness. He’s thinking about the days left in the week, wondering if Hanamiya is desperate enough to respond to a summons to his office hours even after making such a show of petulant irritation; and then his phone hums again, and a new message appears on the screen.

 _You won’t have as much fun with someone else_ , Hanamiya’s text informs him. _If you think there’s anyone else who can match me you’re a lot stupider than I hoped you were_. Imayoshi smiles at the screen, amusement and victory purring through him in equal measures, and then an image flickers into visibility, a photograph sliding in to push aside the wall of text Hanamiya has offered.

It’s of Hanamiya, of course. The angle is sharply tilted down, like he’s holding his phone up over himself; the line of sight shadows his eyes under the impossible weight of his lashes, blocks Imayoshi from seeing any but a glimmer of the flat stare Hanamiya is giving the lens of his camera. He’s not wearing a shirt; in the overexposed flash of the phone camera his skin seems to glow faintly, like the pale translucence of it is catching the flare of illumination and spilling it into the veins Imayoshi can see trailing lines of blue against Hanamiya’s throat and down over the sharp angle of his collarbones. The taper of his waist is accentuated by the angle of the photograph; down at his hips the image fades almost entirely into shadow, with only the sharp tily of Hanamiya’s wrist to indicate where his fingers are braced, to draw Imayoshi’s attention to the thumb the other has hooked inside the waistband of his jeans. The weight is pulling the denim low off narrow hips, dragging it well past the point of usual decency; in the shadow of Hanamiya’s thumb Imayoshi can see the barest suggestion of dark hair curling against the other’s touch.

 _How’s the alternative looking now?_ Hanamiya wants to know, but Imayoshi barely glances at the text before he’s scrolling back up to consider the picture again. Hanamiya’s shoulders are angled sharply forward, the whole position of his body shaped into such an aggressive pose that it carries the emotional weight of a shove, like he’s throwing himself forward to force Imayoshi back. His eyes are shadowed, Imayoshi can see almost none of his expression; but under the curtain of his hair, behind the fall of that dark weight across his face, his mouth is just visible, the heavy curve of his lips is barely parted on a breath of expectation. His mouth looks soft, looks desperate; it makes the rest of his pose look like a facade, a well-done show undermined by the pouting want at his lips. Imayoshi doesn’t think Hanamiya even realized his mouth was visible, certainly didn’t process the implication of his expression; the other would never send something so visibly wanting if he had realized even for a moment what it might imply. Imayoshi looks at the picture, scrolling up and down over it for long seconds; and then he goes back down to the bottom of the messaging app, and waits for the next.

It’s faster this time. Hanamiya must be getting more desperate, or maybe he’s just decided how he plans to attack this particular interaction; Imayoshi is barely back at the bottom when his screen flashes again, the view shifting as another image displays. This is of Hanamiya’s hips exclusively, the phone held up over himself so Imayoshi can see the bracing force of his fingers against the tension of the denim over the heat of his cock; if Hanamiya wasn’t hard when he started texting he is now, so visibly so the photograph is almost more obscene than it would be without the barrier of his pants in the way. His hand is making a show of himself, pressing his cock into visibility against the denim; Imayoshi can see the heat rushing through Hanamiya’s veins as clearly as he can see the tension straining against the whole angle of his fingers.

 _Like what you see?_ Hanamiya’s text pings, but there’s no delay at all this time; the next image is flashing into place as quickly as Imayoshi reads the words. Hanamiya’s jeans are open in this one, the curve of his cock flushed dark for the flash of the camera; his fingers are closed against the base, his wrist braced to angle himself up to make a better display for the photograph. Imayoshi pictures Hanamiya in his room, sprawling across his bed with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, and when he smiles the expression carries all the rising warmth in his veins with it.

The next one takes longer. Hanamiya must be struggling out of his pants, Imayoshi assumes, or maybe just indulging in stroking over himself without offering a play-by-play of the action; Imayoshi doesn’t mind the wait, doesn’t mind some exertion of patience. He has business to occupy himself with in any case; it’s easier to unfasten his own pants when he can set his phone aside and bring both hands into the effort, far smoother to ease his clothes open and free of his hips when he’s not rushing through the movement. By the time his phone hums with a new notification he has his fingers trailing against the length of his cock, his attention idly tracking the flush of heat that swells him harder with every stray thought of what Hanamiya’s doing, of what Hanamiya’s thinking; he’s smiling as he reaches for the phone, as he opens up the messaging screen once more to see what Hanamiya has sent him.

 _I’m thinking about you_ the text reads, and underneath it there’s Hanamiya’s skin slick with sweat, Hanamiya’s fingers gripping hard against the flush of his cock. _Your hands on my throat. Your knee at my hips._ Imayoshi’s lashes flutter at the image of that -- Hanamiya lying beneath him, cheeks flushed and throat working desperately for air while Imayoshi tightens his hold on his neck, while Imayoshi rocks forward to grind the weight of his body against Hanamiya’s hard cock -- but there’s an image flickering into view, so awash with sweat-slick skin it takes Imayoshi a moment to parse it. There’s the open angle of a thigh, he thinks, the dark shadow of unseen pale between Hanamiya’s legs; and a flexing wrist, fingers bracing so hard at the inside of that thigh Imayoshi can see the divots in the other’s skin. Hanamiya has two fingers inside himself, Imayoshi can see the flushed strain of his body flexing tight against the intrusion; when he texts again it’s shakier, with diminishing concern for capitalization and punctuation. _your dick in my ass_.

Imayoshi braces his hold against the edge of his phone, holding it up so he can keep reading Hanamiya’s messages with one hand while he closes his other into a deliberate hold on himself. The first stroke feels good, draws a shudder of satisfaction out into the whole of his body; but Hanamiya is still texting, the words coming with frantic speed now as he keeps working into himself.

 _want you here_ , the text comes, and then _want you in me_ almost atop the first, with barely a pause. _not the same alone_ and another picture, blurrier than the last but easier to make out for the dark color of the dildo braced in Hanamiya’s tense fingers. He has his legs spread open wide, his hips canted up like he’s making a show of himself; the first picture is just Hanamiya holding the toy, his body tipped up like it’s begging for the pressure and the wide base of the dildo braced in his fingers, and then another comes through, with his thighs still open but nothing to see of the toy itself but his fingers clutching the base and the dark width of the shaft stretching his body open around it. Imayoshi huffs an exhale, his hand tightening mid-stroke over his own length, and there’s another message: _fuck me_ with all the abrupt insistence of a plea masquerading as a command. Imayoshi can almost hear it in Hanamiya’s voice, as if it’s a phone line open between them and not a chat box, and then: _please_ to confirm the desperation Imayoshi already knew. _please senpai fuck me please please want you now want you so bad senpai,_ a whole chain of words strung together with such incoherence Imayoshi wonders if Hanamiya doesn’t have his voice-to-text function turned on, if the words aren’t spilling desperate from his throat as he works into himself with the toy. There’s another picture, a photograph so blurry Imayoshi can’t make out any details but the open part of Hanamiya’s lips at the top corner and the dark flush of his cock at the bottom; and then his phone hums again with a notification of something different than what went before, and when Imayoshi taps the screen it’s a video that unfolds to spread across the whole of his display.

It takes Imayoshi a moment to realize what he’s looking at. The view is blurry, the video shaky; he catches a glimpse of shifting skin, a haze of dark hair, a sharp angle of bone close under skin. The sound is louder than he expected too, with a humming static that takes him a moment to parse; and then Hanamiya shudders a moan, the view clarifies, and the strain of tension across his stomach comes clear. His thighs are shaking, his whole body canting up like it’s trying to reach for the satisfaction the drag of his hand is urging him towards; between his legs Imayoshi can just see the dark of the toy Hanamiya worked into himself, and the hum of the sound that explains the noise as a vibrator rather than the static it seemed to be at first. Hanamiya’s panting, his breathing coming as loud as the buzz of movement thrumming inside him, and his hands are unsteady; the view of the camera is jerking across his body with every inhale he takes, like he can’t decide what Imayoshi would most want to see or just can’t ease his hold enough to deliver it. Imayoshi has a glimpse of dark-flushed cock, a tremor of desperate thighs, the tan of a heat-taut nipple; and then the lens veers up, Hanamiya’s grip sliding and nearly giving way, and this time he doesn’t move to correct it. He’s breathing too hard to think of it, Imayoshi thinks, judging from the flutter of his lashes and the desperate movement of his shoulders as he gasps; but without the frantic swing of the camera the phone has time to auto-focus, has a chance to clarify on the details of Hanamiya’s features.

He looks undone. His eyes are open but fixed on nothing at all; his lashes are permanently half-drawn over the gold of his gaze, the shadow of them a match for the spread of his hair tangling over the pillow under him. His mouth is open, his lips wet and soft-swollen on desire, his cheeks as flushed as Imayoshi has ever seen them; he looks like he’s about to come, like he’s about to pass out, like he doesn’t care which so long as he can attain relief for the tension thrumming under his skin. Imayoshi’s cock twitches in his grip, his chest tenses on a sudden rush of desire; and on the screen in front of him Hanamiya’s eyes go wide as his mouth comes open on a desperate gasp of air. His back curves, his head tips back, and the camera tips again, the angle of it slipping to capture the arch of Hanamiya’s body from waist to the open want at his mouth. Imayoshi can see the breath the other takes takes strain at his chest, can see anticipation building to heat under his skin; and then “ _Senpai_ ” cracks past those heat-parted lips, and all the tension in Hanamiya’s body gives way to a long shudder of pleasure as come spurts wet over the flat of his stomach. Hanamiya’s body quivers, all the strain in his limbs giving way to trembling relief as he rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Imayoshi strokes over himself with rushed speed, feeling the knot of desire low in his stomach twist to certainty as he watches Hanamiya shiver with the dregs of pleasure on the phone screen in front of him. Hanamiya’s lips part, he catches a breath loud enough to be heard even over the hum of the vibrator still audible in the video; and it’s just as the clip goes still with the end of the recording that Imayoshi groans, and jerks, and comes hot and sticky over the grip of his hand on himself. His hips jolt, shoving up against the drag of his hand as he strokes himself through the pulses of pleasure, and in front of him there’s just that still frame of Hanamiya, caught in the throes of pleasure by the lens of his own camera for Imayoshi to watch. Imayoshi shudders through the force of his orgasm, letting each separate shock run through him in full to leave him drained and languid; and then he closes out of the video, and returns to the row of unread messages waiting for him.

 _Like that?_ is the first of them, still brief enough to speak the the effect of Hanamiya’s pleasure on his coherency. _I’m always ready for you, senpai._ Then, a minute later, when the delay in Imayoshi’s reading must have become clear: _Spurred your imagination?_ with such self-satisfaction Imayoshi can all but hear it in Hanamiya’s tone. _Come over next time and you can have the real thing._ Another pause, another span of minutes without Imayoshi reading the messages; and then: _Don’t make me amuse myself next time, senpai_ , as if Hanamiya expects this order to be of any real effect. _Or I’ll find someone else to entertain me._

It’s meant to be a threat. Imayoshi can see the shape of it, can see the edge of possessiveness under the words that he’s meant to respond to, that’s meant to instill the ache of jealousy in him. But Hanamiya isn’t here to see him, and Hanamiya doesn’t see the way his mouth curves onto a smile at the text, at the complete giveaway for anxious need Hanamiya has inadvertently included in his unsubtle attempt at manipulation.

“You won’t,” Imayoshi says aloud, and the words taste like truth on his tongue. “It’s too late for that.” And he taps on the video to download it to his phone, and exits out of the messenger without sending a response to any of Hanamiya’s string of messages.

If Hanamiya is going to make such an offering of himself, Imayoshi would be remiss to not _thoroughly_ indulge in the temptation.


	14. Understood

Imayoshi calls, the next time.

It’s been some days. Imayoshi’s been keeping to his apartment, avoiding the bar he suspects Hanamiya to be inhabiting like a moth taking up residence alongside an open flame, and if Hanamiya thinks about reaching out again himself his motivation stalls out against the silence Imayoshi gave him last time, however telling the quiet may have been. Imayoshi lets the delay go long, waiting through his own lengthy evenings with a glass of wine and thoughts of what Hanamiya is doing, what Hanamiya is thinking, how long Hanamiya’s desperation can build before the other breaks under the weight of it; and finally, one day, he dismisses his last class before lunch, and packs his bag with the collected homework assignments and his textbooks, and pulls his phone free as he steps out of the classroom.

Lecture is only just out, Imayoshi knows; he let his own students free a few minutes early just to give himself the time to pack his things up and make this call almost precisely at the start of the lunch break. If Hanamiya has a class he’ll be just getting out, be caught in the rush of chaos and sound that comes with dozens of students all leaving a lecture hall at the same time; he might not hear his phone ring, might not pick up even if he does. Imayoshi has plans for both those eventualities, has repercussions already framed in his mind; but then, just as his phone rings into the fifth ring, there’s a _click_ , and a burst of white noise, and clear over the top: “Senpai?” in tones of shock too immediate to hide the bright of enthusiasm under the word.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says, pulling the other’s name long over his tongue like he’s savouring it. “Come to my office in ten minutes.”

Hanamiya huffs an exhale against the receiver of his phone, the sound coming so hard it washes out even the noise from the crowd that must be around him. “ _What?_ You don’t talk to me for a week and now you just want me to show up because you _call_ me?”

“Yes,” Imayoshi says. “Are you going to refuse?”

There’s a beat of hesitation. Then: “You’re on the other side of campus,” frustrated, petulant, _submissive_. “I can barely make it there in ten minutes.”

“I only have my lunch break free,” Imayoshi tells him. “You’d better run.”

Hanamiya hisses against the phone. “Fuck _you_.”

Imayoshi tips his head up and smiles at the bright of the sky overhead. “Yes,” he purrs. “See you in ten minutes, Hanamiya.”

His office is just around the corner. For Imayoshi it’s only a few minutes, even at a leisurely pace; under the circumstances he makes it in two, his steps speeding more than he intends them to as the adrenaline in his veins picks up speed and force with the thought of what’s coming his way. His bag goes on the chair, the papers inside left to be dealt with at some later point, as does the coat he shrugs off to toss over the back. His shirt sleeves are cuffed against his wrists; he unfastens them as he draws his desk drawer open, pulling it wide so he can get at the bottle he tucked away in the back of it weeks prior, after Hanamiya showed up in his doorway with his eyes wide and dark and manic with need. The bottle goes on the top of his desk, his sleeves draw up over his elbows, and then there’s the sound of a door slamming open, and footsteps pounding down the hallway, and Imayoshi can’t restrain the smile at his lips and doesn’t make any attempt to do so.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya gasps as he rounds the corner of Imayoshi’s door, his face flushed with his run and his breathing hiccuping in his chest. “You are such an _asshole_ , senpai.”

Imayoshi smiles at him. “Yes,” he says, and he’s stepping in, reaching out to close his fingers to a fist at the front of Hanamiya’s t-shirt and drag the other into his office so he can reach behind him and push the door shut. Hanamiya stumbles forward, his unsteady footing nearly dropping him entirely into Imayoshi’s arms, and Imayoshi pushes against the lock at the door to click it into place before he turns his full attention back to the other. Hanamiya is staring at him, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted on the rush of his breathing; Imayoshi thinks he probably doesn’t realize how desperate the expression makes him look, how utterly _wanting_ the tarnished gold of his eyes and the damp at his lips turns him.

“Turn around,” is all Imayoshi says, and he’s shoving at Hanamiya’s shoulder before the other has any chance at all to obey, forcing him to pivot and stumble forward while he’s still taking a breath for protest or comment, Imayoshi doesn’t know and doesn’t care which. It’s enough that Hanamiya is moving, that he’s shifting under the force of Imayoshi’s hands at his shoulders, and then Imayoshi slides his fingers up to brace hard at the side of Hanamiya’s neck as a better point of contact.

“Down,” he says, and Hanamiya goes, dropping so fast Imayoshi almost doesn’t have a chance to push him at all. Hanamiya’s hands come out, his palms landing hard at the surface of Imayoshi’s desk, and Imayoshi shoves down harder, tightening his grip at Hanamiya’s throat to urge the other lower still. “Lower. On the desk.”

“Fuck,” Hanamiya gasps, and drops down to his elbows so his forearms are taking the support of his body instead of his palms. “You sure don’t waste time, do you senpai?”

“No,” Imayoshi says. “I don’t.” He shifts his hand at Hanamiya’s neck, feels the thrum of the other’s pulse rushing hard just under the weight of his fingers. “Will you stay there if I tell you to?”

Hanamiya’s laugh sits far in the back of his throat, purring just under the dig of Imayoshi’s grip on his neck. “Will you choke me if I don’t?”

Imayoshi hums heat over his tongue like syrup, the sound as much answer as the spill of amusement tearing itself free of Hanamiya’s chest. He lets his hold on the other’s neck go, just for a minute so he can shift around behind him instead, and Hanamiya does stay where he is after all, his shoulders tipped down to make a sloping line of his body against the support of Imayoshi’s desk.

“Did you get my messages?” Hanamiya asks as Imayoshi steps in close against him, fitting his feet alongside the other’s and leaning forward so he can reach around and close his hands on the weight of Hanamiya’s belt holding his jeans up on his hips. Hanamiya groans low in the back of his throat, lets his hips rock back to grind himself hard against Imayoshi, but Imayoshi doesn’t hesitate in the brace of his fingers as he slides Hanamiya’s belt free of its buckle and lets it fall open so he can move down to the button and zipper beneath. Hanamiya is hard through the denim, his cock pressing close against the zipper as Imayoshi draws it down; his breathing is catching faster too, rattling in his chest until Imayoshi can all but feel it hum in the air with every ragged inhale the other takes. “My texts? The pictures?”

“Mm,” Imayoshi purrs. “You’re forgetting the video.”

“I knew you were reading them,” Hanamiya laughs. “What do you think, senpai? Do I have a future in the arts?”

“You could be a model,” Imayoshi tells him, and Hanamiya laughs sharp and high, like he was meant to. His jeans are falling open under Imayoshi’s touch; it’s an easy thing for Imayoshi to hook his thumbs in under the waistband and push to urge the whole barrier of Hanamiya’s clothing down and off his hips at once. Hanamiya makes a low sound in the very back of his throat, a whimper so desperate it sounds nearly like pain, and while Imayoshi’s hands are still sliding down Hanamiya’s thighs to push his clothes to tangle at his knees his head is dropping forward, his hair sliding down to pool at the surface of Imayoshi’s desk and leave the knob of bone at the back of his neck bare for the illumination of the light overhead.

“I like the real thing better though,” Imayoshi tells him, tensing his fingers as he draws his hands back up so his nails score lines of pink against the pallor of Hanamiya’s thighs. Hanamiya’s hips jerk at the pressure, his body jolting forward as if to seek out friction he can’t get, and Imayoshi lets his hands come up the last few inches to dig in hard against the handholds of Hanamiya’s narrow hips. “There’s so many more possibilities that come with direct interaction.”

“You think you have better ideas than I do?” Hanamiya asks. When he tips his head to look back over his shoulder at Imayoshi his cheeks are flushed, his breathing is raw; his hair is falling in heavy locks across his features to obscure his expression into stripes of the want so saturating his gaze. “Was I not inventive enough for you, senpai?”

“You made a good start,” Imayoshi tells him, drawing the words long so they resonate with all the weight of condescension he can give them. “You’re a quick learner, Hanamiya-kun.” He tightens his grip at Hanamiya’s hips, digging his fingernails in until he can feel Hanamiya’s skin giving way beneath the force; Hanamiya makes a low sound in the back of his throat, his lashes dipping dark over his eyes, and when Imayoshi pulls him back he lets his head fall back over his arms, hiding his face behind the curtain of his hair as Imayoshi rocks forward to grind hard against the curve of Hanamiya’s ass before him. “I still have a few things I can teach you, though.”

“Oh?” Hanamiya says without lifting his head from the angle he’s making over the desk. “And here I thought you hated teaching.”

“Mm.” Imayoshi lets a hand slide free of Hanamiya’s hip, draws his touch up and over the dip of the other’s back to trail down towards the cleft of his ass. “It all depends on how _inspiring_ I find my students.” His fingers skim hot skin, pulling a tremor through Hanamiya’s body as his touch draws down, and Imayoshi smiles unseen at the dark of the other’s bowed head. “Hand me the lube, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya makes a faint sound, confusion audible in his throat. “What…?” he starts, but Imayoshi is lifting his other hand as fast as Hanamiya looks back towards him, gesturing towards the bottle he set out on the table while Hanamiya is still shaking his hair back from his face. Hanamiya’s gaze follows the angle of Imayoshi’s hand, his attention trailing the direction to land on the bottle; and then he’s grinning, his teeth flashing brilliant against his lips as he huffs a sound of amusement so sharp it almost sounds more like a cough than a laugh.

“You’re prepared,” he says, tipping sideways to free his arm so he can reach out for the bottle. “How long have you been planning this, senpai?” Imayoshi takes the offered bottle, ducking his head to focus on opening the lid one-handed without lifting his touch from Hanamiya’s skin; he doesn’t meet the weight of Hanamiya’s stare, doesn’t match the lingering eye contact he can feel so hot against the neutrality of his expression. “Did you buy that just for me?”

“Who knows?” Imayoshi says. The bottle is open; he upends it over his fingers against Hanamiya’s skin, making up for inelegance with quantity as he spills the slick liquid across the other’s body. Hanamiya hisses at the cold, his body tensing under Imayoshi’s touch, and Imayoshi slides his fingers up to draw through the wet of the lube against Hanamiya’s skin. “It doesn’t make a difference to you, does it? I could be fucking every student in my class for all you know.”

Hanamiya makes a sharp sound in the back of his throat. “You’re not fucking _me_ ,” he snaps. “Come _on_ , senpai, when are you going to put your dick in me already?”

“You should learn to ask more nicely than that,” Imayoshi tells him, and presses a slick finger against the pressure at Hanamiya’s entrance. Hanamiya makes a rough sound at the back of his throat, a whine of heat breaking sharp and high in his chest, and Imayoshi pushes in harder, sinking the full length of his finger inside the other’s body while Hanamiya is still clenching hard against the intrusion. He’s hot to the touch, burning as if his blood in his veins is flame to scorch himself and Imayoshi clean at once; Imayoshi pushes deep, harder, delving as far as he can reach before the length of his finger is insufficient and he has to draw back for another stroke. Hanamiya moans with this one, his voice breaking in his throat as Imayoshi’s thrust pushes him forward, and Imayoshi reaches out again to sink his fingers into the fall of Hanamiya’s dark hair, to pull the weight of it back from the other’s face so he can make a fist of a handhold on the heavy locks.

“ _Nicely_ ,” he says, and it’s an order, now, punctuated as much by the pull of his grip in Hanamiya’s hair as the slide of his touch into the other as he sets a pace as rough as it is fast. “Come on, Hanamiya-kun, you must have some politeness in there somewhere.”

Hanamiya bares his teeth in a sneering smirk, cutting his gaze back over his shoulder to meet Imayoshi’s steady gaze. “Fuck _you_ , senpai.”

Imayoshi raises an eyebrow. “Really,” he says, and pushes in deep all at once, a sharp shove of his hand to blow Hanamiya’s eyes wide and drop his lips open on a startled huff of air. “Is that the _best_ you can do?” He pulls back, twists his wrist to shift the angle of his hand as he takes another thrust. “You won’t even get two fingers for that kind of behavior.”

“Fuck,” Hanamiya groans. “As if I need you to get me off.”

“You _want_ me to get you off,” Imayoshi tells him. He sinks his finger in deep, as far as he can go; and then he tenses his touch, pressing hard inside Hanamiya’s body as he begins to draw back. He can feel the way Hanamiya clenches around him, can see uncertain anticipation blow wide behind the other’s eyes; between his knees Hanamiya’s legs tremble, quivering with the building thrum of heat. “You like it.” His finger presses against Hanamiya’s prostate, his touch weighting against the sensitive nerves, and Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his body jerks through an involuntary twitch of reaction. Imayoshi goes still, stalling the retreat of his hand, and when he moves again it’s to dig in harder, to grind pressure against Hanamiya’s body while he watches heat flicker helpless reaction across the other’s expression.

“It’s better this way” and that’s not a question; it’s a statement, an order, like Imayoshi can sway Hanamiya’s own opinion just by the force of his own certainty. “This is what you think about when you’re alone” as he presses deeper for a moment, watching Hanamiya’s expression twist on anxious want before Imayoshi draws back to drag another flutter of trembling sensation over the other’s face. “Don’t you, Hanamiya-kun?”

“I--” Hanamiya starts, his voice trembling but making an attempt at resistance; and Imayoshi draws his finger back to thrust in again, hard, and he can see the argumentation drain out of Hanamiya’s expression, scattering into wide-eyed shock at the sensation that jolts his hips forward in reflexive motion and clenches his body tight around Imayoshi’s touch. “ _Fuck_.”

“Ask me,” Imayoshi says, sliding his fingers deeper into Hanamiya’s hair, pressing harder to pin the other’s head flat to the desk in front of him. “Beg me for it, Hanamiya-kun.”

“Fuck,” Hanamiya groans, but his lashes are dipping, the sound in his throat is more a moan than it is protest. “Please, senpai.”

Imayoshi draws through another thrust, deliberately slowly this time. “Please _what_?”

“Please fuck me,” Hanamiya says, immediately, the words are spilling slick over his lips. “Senpai, please, I _want_ it, I want you.”

“How?” Imayoshi asks. “Like this? Here?”

“Sure,” Hanamiya says. “Yes. Anywhere. However you want me.” He braces a hand against the table, his fingers arching taut against the surface like he’s trying to gain traction enough to shove himself backwards against Imayoshi’s touch. “I don’t _care_.”

“You just want my cock?” Imayoshi asks. He slides his touch back, withdrawing his finger almost completely; Hanamiya’s eyes come open, his gaze jerking toward Imayoshi standing over him as his throat gives up a whimper of protest. Imayoshi lets his eyebrow raise, lets his smile quirk sharply upwards to match it. “I had no idea you were such a little _slut_ , Hanamiya-kun.”

“Senpai,” Hanamiya starts, his voice straining in the back of his throat; and then Imayoshi presses another finger in against the first, driving both hard into Hanamiya’s body, and Hanamiya’s head angles back against Imayoshi’s hold on his hair, his eyes blowing wide with the first groan of heat in his throat. “Ah, _god_ , _senpai_.”

“This is better,” Imayoshi says again. He’s finding a rhythm to the stroke of his hand, angling his wrist as he moves into Hanamiya; it’s easier to gauge with two fingers, easier to feel the tension building in Hanamiya’s body when the other is stretched open around the greater breadth. He can feel the want rising in the other as clearly as he can see it in the glaze on those gold eyes, as clearly as he can feel it in the strain of the other’s tipped-back head. He tenses his fist on Hanamiya’s hair, and fixes his gaze on Hanamiya’s face, and he doesn’t ease the pace of his movement. “This is better than anything you do to yourself, isn’t it?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya groans, his whole body arching to answer the slick thrust of Imayoshi’s fingers into him, of Imayoshi’s touch forcing friction out into his veins. “ _Yes_.”

“It’s not the same by yourself,” Imayoshi tells him, and it’s a statement, it’s almost an order, as if he can strip the satisfaction from Hanamiya’s own memories with the force of his voice alone. “It doesn’t matter what you do, you’ll never make yourself feel as good as I can make you feel.” Hanamiya groans, a sound like surrender in the back of his throat, his eyelashes fluttering to echo the capitulation, and Imayoshi can feel the power of it surging through his veins, can feel his blood rushing hotter through him as if it’s adopting all the fire of Hanamiya’s abandoned resistance for Imayoshi’s use instead. His next thrust is harder, angled down to force pressure against the other’s body, and Hanamiya _wails_ , his fingers dragging uselessly against the surface of Imayoshi’s desk as he seeks for traction he fails to find.

“I’m better at this than you are,” Imayoshi says, offering the words with fluid certainty that he’s sure is entirely lost on the glaze of desire building to tension behind Hanamiya’s eyes. It makes Imayoshi smile anyway, tugs his mouth into a curve of appreciation that Hanamiya doesn’t see, and he keeps watching, tracking the flicker of involuntary response over the other’s face as he stokes Hanamiya’s body to greater heat with every slick thrust of his fingers. “You’ve never made yourself feel like this, have you, Hanamiya-kun?” Hanamiya’s panting against the desk, his lips parted as he gasps for air; there’s a slick line of saliva from his red mouth to the dark of the desk below him, damp collecting to shine wet at the surface. “Did you even know you _could_ feel this way?” Another driving movement forward, deeper this time; Hanamiya’s eyes go wide, his throat opens on a groan. Imayoshi can feel the other’s body seize tight against the intrusion, can feel the reflexive grip of Hanamiya bearing down against the strain of Imayoshi’s fingers inside him like the other’s trying to hold him still, like he’s trying to buy himself a moment to catch his breath and find his composure. Imayoshi doesn’t so much as slow.

“Have you ever come from just this, Hanamiya-kun?” he asks, letting his voice drop into conversational calm wholly at odds with the slick thrust of his fingers and the bracing angle of his hips pressing close against the back of Hanamiya’s thigh. “Have you ever tried?” He eases his hold on Hanamiya’s hair, enough to draw his fingers free so he can push at the dark tangle of hair and urge it back from the other’s face to leave his expression clear and unshadowed for the illumination overhead. Hanamiya’s eyes are dark, the pupils blown out to swallow up all the color of his irises; he looks drunk, drugged, looks like he’s not seeing anything at all for whatever electricity is sparking in his head. His mouth is open still, his throat thrumming over faint whimpers of sound Imayoshi can see purring just under the other’s skin; Imayoshi doesn’t think they’re intentional, doesn’t think Hanamiya could stop them even if he tried, even if Imayoshi wanted him to.

“I’m going to get you off like this,” Imayoshi continues, his voice level as he speeds the forward rhythm of his hand. “You’re going to come around my fingers before I even unzip my pants, Hanamiya-kun, and I’m not even going to have to touch your cock.”

Hanamiya moans. “ _Please_ ,” he starts, but Imayoshi just keeps talking, pitching his voice louder to drown out the low rhythm of pleas that are spilling up Hanamiya’s throat in time with every forward drive of his fingers.

“You’ll come over my desk with my fingers in your ass, and every time you touch yourself after this you’ll think about me, won’t you?” Imayoshi leans in closer, lets his hold at Hanamiya’s hair take the counterbalance to his weight; the force tips Hanamiya’s head sideways, pulling it back to an uncomfortable angle as Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, as his heat-blown vision slides sideways to drag over the angle of Imayoshi’s smile. “You’ll fantasize about my fingers inside you and the feel of my desk under your hands and it won’t be enough, you’ll _need_ me, you’ll never be able to replace me with just a toy.” Imayoshi tenses his fingers, presses hard inside Hanamiya’s body, watches the other’s gaze blow wide and staring as he gasps air for lungs suddenly empty of oxygen.

“And this is just my fingers,” Imayoshi goes on. His grip tightens in Hanamiya’s hair, the fist he makes of the strands dragging hard against the other’s scalp. “Imagine what I could do to you if I were _fucking_ you.”

“ _Please_ ,” Hanamiya groans, his voice grating to such heights it overwhelms even the weight of Imayoshi’s tone. “ _Please_ , senpai, I want it, I want you, senpai please fuck me.” Imayoshi’s fingers work, Hanamiya’s breath whines. “ _Please_ , I want your cock, I want your cock _inside_ me, sen _pai_.” Hanamiya’s voice breaks, cracking over the height of his range; his nails catch at Imayoshi’s desk, his neck strains against his breathing. “ _Please_.”

Imayoshi takes a breath, lets it fill his lungs with calm, with composure, with certainty. “No,” he says, and he shoves his fingers forward, and Hanamiya _moans_ , his broken-open voice toppling down to the very depths of his chest as his whole body spasms around Imayoshi’s fingers. His eyes roll back, his fingers seize on nothing; against the front of Imayoshi’s desk his hips jerk forward, his cock spilling wet stripes against the dark surface. And Imayoshi keeps moving, keeps stroking his touch into Hanamiya without so much as hesitating, until Hanamiya gasps and shudders, his whole body flinching with the too-much sensation. It’s only when Hanamiya rattles over a breath like he’s drowning in clear air that Imayoshi relents, slowing and ceasing the thrust of his fingers to hesitate for a moment before drawing them back and out of the other’s body.

“Knees,” he says, and he’s pulling at Hanamiya’s hair before the other has any chance to react, without giving him time to collect the shattered pieces of his awareness Imayoshi has left in his wake. For the first inch Hanamiya is a dead weight in his hold, sliding heavy over the surface of the desk to Imayoshi’s pull; and then he blinks, the shift of his lashes pulling his gaze to some measure of clarity, and he gasps an inhale and reaches futilely for the far edge of the desk.

“No,” he rasps as Imayoshi drags him off the support, as his shaky legs drop him to his knees regardless of the desperate attempts he’s making to hold to the desk. “No, _no_ , I want you to _fuck_ me.”

“I’m going to,” Imayoshi says, reaching out to grab at a handful of Hanamiya’s tangled hair with lube-slick fingers as well as the fist he’s already made. When he wrenches the other’s head up and back Hanamiya’s eyes are dark, his mouth wet and red and dragging hard into a scowl of frustration in spite of the orgasmic haze yet clinging to his gaze and flushing his cheeks. Imayoshi braces Hanamiya’s head between his palms and presses his thumbs against the other’s cheekbones in a gesture somewhere between affectionate and domineering. “Just not your ass.”

Hanamiya makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his forehead creasing on frustration as his brows draw down over his eyes. “Why _not_?”

“Because you’d pass out on my desk and I still have work to get done,” Imayoshi tells him. Hanamiya’s lashes dip, the shadow of them casting his vision out-of-focus as his imagination trails Imayoshi’s words, and Imayoshi lets his hold on the other’s head go, lifts his hand away to let it curve a smooth arc through the air instead. His hand connects with Hanamiya’s face with a _crack_ , the weight of his open-palmed smack enough to knock the other’s head sideways and to blow the air from his lungs in a startled rush, but Imayoshi doesn’t wait for the protest he knows will be shortly coming. “Open your mouth, Hanamiya-kun.”

Hanamiya lifts a hand to his face, trembling fingers weighting against the pattern of Imayoshi’s palm at his skin; when he looks up at the other his eyes are dark, crackling with something that looks as much promise as threat. Imayoshi wonders for a moment if he’ll resist, if he’ll complain, if he’ll do any of the number of things that Imayoshi is braced for; and then Hanamiya’s lashes dip, and his gaze drops to the straining fabric at the front of Imayoshi’s slacks, and Imayoshi knows what he’s going to do even before Hanamiya swallows hard enough that the sound is audible. He lets his hand fall from his face -- his unhealthily pale skin is glowing red with the injury, now, Imayoshi imagines he can see his fingerprints rising to bruise against Hanamiya’s cheek -- and then he lifts his chin, and opens his mouth, and casts his gaze up to hold Imayoshi’s like a dare.

Imayoshi isn’t about to refuse. He reaches for his slacks, unfastening his belt and fly with movements made efficient by practice, and as he draws his cock free he reaches out for Hanamiya’s hair again, sliding his fingers through the weight of it and around to cradle the back of the other’s head. Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his attention falling from Imayoshi’s gaze to the dark swell of the other’s cock before him, and Imayoshi doesn’t have to pull to urge Hanamiya closer, to pull the wet part of those lips in against his skin. Hanamiya leans in as quickly as Imayoshi drags at his hair, rocking his weight forward as if he’s being summoned by magnetism, and Imayoshi sinks past his lips and far into the heat of Hanamiya’s mouth with the first rocking arc of his hips.

Hanamiya’s mouth is hot. Imayoshi knew it would be, has thought about this more than once, at this point; but it’s different to imagine it than to have the reality before him, to have the soft weight of Hanamiya’s lips closing tight against his length as his hand braces Hanamiya in place, as his hips come forward to sink his cock farther into the depths of the other’s mouth. Imayoshi sighs an exhale, feeling relief spark up his spine to match the friction of Hanamiya’s mouth around him; and then he catches Hanamiya’s head between both hands at once, digging his thumbs in hard at the curve of the other’s skull, and he starts to move with vicious certainty.

He doesn’t speak. This isn’t like before, with the lilt of his voice to urge Hanamiya’s breathing to dizzy heights and to force the other’s body over the cusp of shuddering pleasure; this is for himself, silent and focused and sure, and there’s no sound at all except for the pace of Imayoshi’s breathing, and the hiss of Hanamiya’s, and the faint, liquid drag of slick skin dipping into the wet of Hanamiya’s mouth and sliding back out. Imayoshi doesn’t wait for Hanamiya to take action, doesn’t wait for the other to lead him to the edge of pleasure and over; he just moves, sharp, hard thrusts of his hips to make the best use of Hanamiya’s mouth regardless of the other’s skill or lack thereof. Hanamiya tries to meet him for the first minute, tries to tighten his lips to suction and press his tongue against the underside of Imayoshi’s cock; but he can’t keep up, can’t match Imayoshi’s rhythm, and after several seconds he subsides, tipping his head up and back in overt surrender to Imayoshi’s hold on him that Imayoshi doesn’t need the dip of Hanamiya’s lashes over his gaze to confirm. It’s better like this, better with Hanamiya passive and capitulating to the force of his hands, better with the other’s mouth soft and slack for Imayoshi’s use; and then Imayoshi rocks forward, nearly pressing his hips flush to Hanamiya’s lips, and Hanamiya gags and chokes as the head of Imayoshi’s cock bumps hard at the back of his throat.

It feels good. It feels good even while Hanamiya is gasping, while the whole of his mouth and throat and chest are working together in reflexive resistance of the force; and it feels better to have his head braced still in Imayoshi’s hands, to hold him still against the involuntary shudders of reaction so he has to cough and wheeze around the obstruction of Imayoshi’s cock still in his mouth. It makes Imayoshi’s skin flush hot with self-consciousness, like he can feel the power of his position crackling to flame inside the span of his veins, and when he moves again it’s at his own discretion, without waiting to be sure Hanamiya has caught his breath back. Imayoshi’s hands press close, Hanamiya’s head tilts back in obedience to the force of his hold; and when Imayoshi rocks himself forward this time it’s deliberate, with an angle to his hips to guide the thrust of his cock down against the very back of Hanamiya’s tongue. Imayoshi hits momentary resistance, Hanamiya’s lashes shift as his eyes open wide; and then Imayoshi slides forward over the last inch, the head of his cock pressing into the tension of Hanamiya’s straining throat. Hanamiya chokes a sound, the noise of it breaking and stalling at Imayoshi’s length in his mouth; but he’s not lifting his hands to shove the other back, even as he blinks hard against the involuntary tears starting in his eyes, and when Imayoshi draws back in preparation for another thrust Hanamiya doesn’t try to tip his head forward to prevent a repetition of the last movement. He just stares up at Imayoshi, his breath hissing in his nose and his eyes dark under the shade of his lashes, and Imayoshi holds his head steady and rocks forward to fuck down against the strain of Hanamiya’s throat once more.

The sense of control is exquisite. The physical sensation is satisfying too, would be enough all on its own; but aside from the slick wet of Hanamiya’s tongue and the reflexive flex of his throat tightening against Imayoshi at the depth of every thrust there’s the weight of Hanamiya’s stare, the sound of his ragged breathing stalling as Imayoshi presses his hips close against the other’s lips, the awareness that Imayoshi could hold him still and keep him from breathing for as long as he wants, and the suspicion that Hanamiya would let him, would submit to that as much as he has to everything else Imayoshi has done to him so far. It’s all intoxicating, it thrums to a knot of heat low in the depths of Imayoshi’s stomach, and he doesn’t try to restrain the increasing speed of his movement, doesn’t try to withhold the surge of pleasure that purrs through him with every slide of Hanamiya’s mouth against him. Hanamiya’s gaze is still on him, still fixed to attention at Imayoshi’s face even as his eyes go dark, as the focus in his vision clouds into the determination of intent willpower keeping him upright and conscious as his body trembles for air. He doesn’t try to pull away, doesn’t try to wrench free of Imayoshi’s hold; he just stays where he is, knees on the floor and hands slack at his sides, making an offering of himself for Imayoshi to use precisely and thoroughly as he sees fit. He’d do anything, Imayoshi thinks hazily, Hanamiya is ready to obey any command Imayoshi gives him--and his orgasm catches him unawares, sweeping out to seize his fingers tight and pulse heat through his cock before he has any chance to offer so much as a warning. Hanamiya chokes at the wet, his throat flexing on an attempted cough as Imayoshi comes into his mouth; but Imayoshi doesn’t ease his hold, keeps holding Hanamiya’s lips close at the base of his cock as he lets the shudders of pleasure wring him to trembling satisfaction. It’s only once the last of the aftershocks have eased that Imayoshi lets his shoulders sag, and lets himself take a long breath; and then, finally, he lets his hold on Hanamiya go.

Hanamiya pulls back as soon as he’s freed, his throat working immediately on the coughing that Imayoshi’s grip wouldn’t let him have. It’s raw in his throat; he’s trying to breathe in air and cough up liquid at the same time, without any clear priority for his actions, and the effort doubles him over his knees, drops his hand to the floor to brace himself while he gasps and retches and wheezes himself back into the rhythm of ordinary breathing. Imayoshi watches him, his attention no more than idle interest as he pulls his slacks back into place and refastens his belt; by the time Hanamiya is sagging to gasp rough inhales against the floor Imayoshi is pulled back to composure, with only the purr of sated heat in his veins to speak to his indulgence.

“Not bad,” he says, letting his voice gain a tinge of amusement as he looks down at Hanamiya in front of him. Hanamiya lifts his head from the floor, just enough to fix Imayoshi with a stare from under the fall of his hair that looks like a glare and feels like electricity in the narrow space between them. Imayoshi lets the corner of his mouth quirk upwards, lets his chin lift ever-so-slightly to grant him a regal air, the aura of a king deigning to grace some favored subject before him. “Clean up the mess you made of my desk before you go.”

Hanamiya blinks, his lashes weighting his eyes, drags his tongue wet over his lips like he’s tasting the words he’s about to offer before he says them. “Will you fuck me on it properly next time?”

Imayoshi’s smile pulls tauter. “Clean it up,” he repeats, and turns his back on Hanamiya as he steps around the edge of the desk to return to his seat. “And then we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Hanamiya doesn’t offer coherent speech as a response to this question, but he doesn’t have to. Between Imayoshi’s calm consideration and Hanamiya’s heated stare, Imayoshi thinks they are coming to understand each other quite well.


	15. Swerve

Imayoshi is on campus when his phone rings.

He’s just finished announcing the plans for the final exam to his last class of the day, to many groans and several questions which he had already answered over the course of the announcement. He had fixed a smile on his face, and answered them all with the kindest tone he could find while his thoughts wandered elsewhere over all the judgment and irritation that wasn’t showing on his features. It’s left him stressed, with a knot between his shoulders and an ache at his temples that demands some kind of care, whether the comfort of a glass of wine at home or splurging on a dinner out for himself. He’s turning over the options in the back of his mind, vacillating from one to the other without any headway in making a clear decision; and then his phone hums, and when he pulls it out of his pocket the name on the display offers the idea of a completely different kind of stress relief.

He’s smiling by the time he gets the phone to his ear.

“Hanamiya-kun,” he drawls into the receiver, slurring the vowels of the other’s name long and syrupy over his tongue like he’s savouring the taste of them. He can feel his shoulders easing already, can feel his headache disintegrating just with the anticipation of Hanamiya’s voice, the lilt of his laugh and the cut of whatever thinly-veiled innuendo the other is surely about to offer him. “What can I do for you?”

“Anything you want,” Hanamiya responds immediately, and Imayoshi smiles out at the blandly familiar landscape in front of him at this confirmation of his suspicion. “You should know that by now, senpai.”

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums. “I do.” His imagination is stirring to life, offering ideas of Hanamiya at his home, Hanamiya in his bed, Hanamiya on his knees in the entryway with Imayoshi’s belt wound to bind around his wrists or to form a makeshift collar against his throat. It’s a pleasant mental excursion, one he’s still wandering down as he continues through the basic motions of the conversation. “Why are you calling me?”

“Isn’t it enough to want to hear your voice?” Imayoshi can hear the flutter of Hanamiya’s lashes audible in the sugar-sweet lilt of the words, as if he’s transformed into a besotted thirteen-year-old girl on the phone with her first real boyfriend. It’s only for a moment; then Hanamiya goes on, his voice dropping back to its usual register as he continues. “Class registration opened this morning.”

“I’m aware,” Imayoshi tells him. “Are you looking for validation on your class selection, Hanamiya-kun? I’m hardly the right source for that, you should be speaking to an academic advisor.”

Hanamiya laughs. “No,” he says. “It was easy to pick my classes for this quarter.” His voice dips down, dropping to a purr so low it crackles static into the phone receiver, as if Hanamiya’s voice is clawing at the space between the two of them to bring Imayoshi closer. “I have failed classes I need to retake, you see.”

Imayoshi understands at once. It’s like ice spilling down his spine, like nitrogen chilling all his blood to frozen stillness in his veins. For a moment he can’t find air for his lungs; for a moment he thinks his heart has forgotten how to beat.

“What.” The voice comes from somewhere distant, across some endless span of space keeping Imayoshi’s immediate consciousness from the ramifications of Hanamiya’s statement, from the implications of his casual announcement.

“Are you surprised?” Hanamiya asks, purring over the words as if this is a joke, as if this is a _game_. “I’m looking forward to having my favorite TA as an instructor again.”

Imayoshi has stopped walking. He’s in the middle of a span of grass, the blades catching wet against his shoes as the soft damp of the ground gives way under his feet, but he doesn’t notice any more than he’s seeing the surroundings he’s staring at with such blank focus. “Drop the course.”

There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation. Imayoshi can picture the crease in Hanamiya’s forehead, can imagine the frown at his lips. “What? No, why would I?”

“You _cannot_ take my class.”

There’s a huff of sound, the spill of a laugh crackling against the receiver. Hanamiya sounds amused, light, as if he’s feeling none of the weight of his actions. “Why not?”

Imayoshi’s jaw sets, his teeth press close together. The ice is spreading from his spine, it’s unwinding into his fingers and clenching hard against the edge of his phone. “I can’t be a teacher for someone I’m in a relationship with.”

Hanamiya snorts. “Okay,” he says, slow, his tone dipping towards condescension. “Whatever. That’s got nothing to do with teaching someone you’re fucking around with.”

The sun is warm against Imayoshi’s skin. He can feel it glowing against his face, can feel the radiance of it heating the dark of his hair into pleasant comfort against his scalp; and he can feel his skin go icy, can feel the frigid bite of anger frosting over his body as quickly as it does his voice, turning him into something unreachable and distant and impossibly, brutally cold.

“Fine,” he says, and his voice is as cold as the rest of him, he can taste the frostbite against his tongue and riming the edges of his teeth. “Do whatever you want.” And he’s drawing his phone away from his ear, tapping through hanging up the call without waiting to hear whatever response or protest Hanamiya might try to give. He puts it back in his pocket without waiting for a return call, without hesitating over even the possibility; when he resumes walking his feet land with the full weight of his body, as if the drive of his heels against the earth will be enough to change the orbit of the planet in its course. But the earth continues on, in spite of Imayoshi’s force and fury alike, and even by the time he makes it home, Imayoshi’s frigid rage hasn’t eased.

He’s all too certain Hanamiya’s path will prove just as stubbornly fixed.


	16. Bitter

Imayoshi doesn’t look up when he hears Hanamiya coming.

He has more than enough to hold his attention. There’s the latest stack of essays to sort through, the pages and pages of poorly-executed arguments and incomplete ideas forming a heap of ink-marked paper before him; Imayoshi’s been working through them for an hour, and he estimates he’s made it through perhaps a third. There’s no particular reason he has to complete his grading today; but it gives him something to look at, something to hold his gaze, and so he’s looking down at the essay in front of him and not at the hallway when he hears the footsteps scuffing to a halt just outside his door.

He doesn’t acknowledge the sound. It’s perfectly clear; Imayoshi knows who it is standing scowling in the doorway of his office, knows without having to lift his gaze that Hanamiya is standing still staring at him at his desk. He suspects Hanamiya knows it too, that Hanamiya is standing waiting for some indication of acknowledgment from the other. Imayoshi doesn’t give it to him. He keeps his focus on the essay, not noting the other’s presence by so much as the tension in his fingers, and after a few minutes of strained silence Hanamiya huffs irritation and knocks hard against Imayoshi’s open door.

Imayoshi takes a moment to look up. He finishes reading over the paragraph in front of him, finishes writing out a vicious critique of the argument in the margins of the paper; and then, finally, he lays his pen aside, and lifts his chin enough to look up through the fall of his hair at Hanamiya in the doorway.

Hanamiya looks unwell. He’s been deteriorating over the last few weeks since the quarter started; Imayoshi can track his decline via the other’s attendance in the lecture courses that he sits through religiously while spending every moment of them staring so fixedly at Imayoshi himself that Imayoshi is sure he’s hearing nothing at all. There are shadows under Hanamiya’s eyes, dark purple bruises that have only been spreading the wider with every week that goes by; his hair is lank around his shoulders, heavy with the same weight of inattention that is leaving his shirts wrinkled over his shoulders. He tried dressing up, the first week of class; he arrived with his hair sleek and deliberately styled, in variations of fashion from the polite model student he adopted on his first proper meeting with Imayoshi to the leather and buckles that he seems to favor with more personal flair. He even wore the same t-shirt he had on during his last memorable visit to Imayoshi’s office as his desperation increased, bore the weight of the fabric like a banner while he glaring at Imayoshi as if daring him to comment. But Imayoshi ignored all of them, as he has ignored every one of Hanamiya’s attempts to elicit his attention since they began, and by now all Hanamiya’s efforts have fallen into resigned carelessness as all his attention focuses instead on the absence of Imayoshi’s.

“Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says in his most polite, most distant tone. “Is there something I can help you with?”  
Hanamiya’s throat works over the strain of a swallow. Imayoshi doesn’t follow the motion with his eyes, but it’s clear enough to see without the effort. “Don’t give me that _bullshit_.” Hanamiya’s all but spitting the words; Imayoshi can hear the tension on them, can hear the barely-restrained fury lacing over the motion of Hanamiya’s throat. “You know _damn_ well what I want.”

“Are the lectures progressing too quickly for you?” Imayoshi asks, all solicitous condescension. “You seem to be doing quite well in the assignments you’ve turned in. If you’re concerned about your grade you have no reason to be.”

“ _Fuck_ my grade” Hanamiya spits, and he’s lunging forward, covering the distance between Imayoshi’s door and Imayoshi himself in the span of two quick strides. His palm slams flat on Imayoshi’s desk, his body cants forward to invade the other’s personal space; when he reaches out his fingers drag hard across the front of Imayoshi’s shirt, his grip curling to a fist against the other’s clothes as he drags him roughly forward. “Why are you _doing_ this?”

Imayoshi doesn’t resist Hanamiya’s pull against his clothes. He lets himself go completely slack, tipping forward across his desk without so much as tugging back against the other’s hold. “Let go, Hanamiya-kun.”

“Stop _fucking around_.” Hanamiya is leaning in closer, so near the shadow of his shoulders falls over Imayoshi’s face; backlit as he is the glow of his eyes flattens to dark, gold shifting into bronze against the exhaustion clinging to his face. His lips are wet, his mouth is trembling; he looks desperate, like he’s on the verge of throwing a punch or bursting into tears. “You’re not fooling anyone with this goody-two-shoes shit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Hanamiya spits, almost against Imayoshi’s mouth. “Jesus christ, all I did was sign up for your stupid _fucking_ class and you barely _look_ at me.”

“This is inappropriate behavior, Hanamiya-kun,” Imayoshi says with absolute calm on his voice. “If you persist I will be forced to call campus police to deal with you.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Hanamiya growls. “Stop acting like some dickless _loser_ , like you weren’t ready to fuck me over this goddamn desk a month ago.”

“I understand that you may be under a great deal of stress--”

“ _Fuck you_.”

“--but this would constitute assault if I were to pursue any kind of repercussions.” Imayoshi meets Hanamiya’s gaze, holds the frenzy of the other’s attention without so much as a crack in the polite lie of his facade. “I _am_ sympathetic to your mental state but that hardly gives you free rein to do as you please.”

“ _Sympathetic_ ,” Hanamiya spits, and Imayoshi does feel it, this time, the harsh edges of the other’s voice spraying wet against his lips. “You goddamn _caused_ it and now you’re _sympathetic_.” He shoves back against his hold on Imayoshi’s shirt, pushing with enough force to knock the other back in his chair; Imayoshi lets himself go slack, lets his shoulders slam hard against the support as Hanamiya pushes himself to upright with so much aggression that he has to stumble backward to keep his balance.

“Thank you,” Imayoshi says mildly, and reaches to straighten his glasses without looking away from Hanamiya. “I’ll let this go this time in consideration of your academic potential. Please do consider seeking out professional help, Hanamiya-kun; it would be a shame to lose a mind such as yours to such trivial personal matters.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hanamiya says succinctly, and he’s turning on his heel to stride out the door of Imayoshi’s office, reaching behind himself to catch at the handle and drag it shut behind him with enough force that the frames on the walls rattle as it slams into the frame.

Imayoshi leans back into the support of his chair, tipping his weight back to rest against the frame behind him. His shirt is rumpled, his papers askew; he reaches to tidy both, carefully, tugging against his clothes until they are as smooth and pristine as before Hanamiya came in. It’s only then that he lifts his hand to his mouth, that he touches his fingers to the damp at his lips; and with the door of his office shut, and Hanamiya well out of eyeshot, Imayoshi takes a moment to shut his eyes, and tip his head back, and savour the memory of Hanamiya’s shadowed eyes, of his cracking voice, of his desperate demands.

His tongue curls with the bitter of it, but his smile is more sincere than anything he let Hanamiya see.


	17. Anticipate

The quarter passes slowly.

Imayoshi doesn’t hold any expectations. A sense of anticipation would stretch the weeks unbearably long, would fray against his own hard-won composure until he thinks even his calm would erode into something like the frantic desperation that still flares in Hanamiya’s eyes every time he attends the lecture for Imayoshi’s class. And Imayoshi has other things to do that demand his time, even if they are hardly enough to truly hold his attention. He loses himself in his research, trudges through the mundanity of the homework assignments and essays he assigns and grades and returns, makes his life a routine so fixed in its structure that there’s no time to think about what else there might be, no space to indulge in fantasies of something beyond the calm pleasure of his research or the dull blandness of grading essays. He immerses himself in his role as a graduate student, and dedicates himself to the life he’s built of that framework, and he doesn’t look at the names on the assignments he reviews before he grades them. Even those occasions when he gives in to the necessity of physical relief he does so mechanically, as more of a ritual than an exploration, and he keeps his attention firmly fixed on the reality of his hand dragging over himself and the rate of his breathing in his throat and far, far away from even the possibility of a fantasy to couple with the sensation.

Hanamiya doesn’t come back to Imayoshi’s office. His attendance slips shortly after their last interaction; for four classes in a row he’s nowhere in the audience, there’s no trace of those fever-bright eyes glaring a dare to action at Imayoshi at the front of the room. When he does arrive next it’s to turn in an assignment, to drop his paper on Imayoshi’s desk without so much as a flourish of his usual energy, and if he spends the rest of the lecture staring at the front Imayoshi doesn’t make more than fleeting eye contact, and Hanamiya doesn’t try to maneuver for more. He leaves with everyone else, and Imayoshi’s phone stays silent in his pocket for the rest of the day, and the next lecture Hanamiya’s absent again, his existence indicated only by one of the handful of empty seats scattered around the classroom. He arrives for assignments, and for tests; but there’s nothing remarkable about his papers any more than there is about his exam results, nothing to set him apart from the general array of undergraduates that form the sea of Imayoshi’s classes. Imayoshi collects Hanamiya’s essays with everyone else’s, and grades them just the same as everyone else’s, and when Hanamiya isn’t there to pick them up when they’re returned Imayoshi sets them aside along with the handful of other unclaimed assignments.

He does sit the final exam. Imayoshi had wondered, distantly, if Hanamiya wouldn’t pass on the final test just to make a point, if he wouldn’t try to throw off Imayoshi’s expectations having once established a pattern; but he’s there, essay book in hand and eyes fixed on the prompt instead of on Imayoshi, and he keeps his head down for the whole of the allotted time, frowning at the paper in front of him for the span of uninterrupted silence. He takes longer than most -- the room only has a scattered array of other students by the time he closes the cover of his book -- and he doesn’t bother to reread his work, just reaches for his bag to sling it over his shoulder and drops his exam on Imayoshi’s desk without pausing in his stride towards the door. “Thank you,” Imayoshi offers, with the same insincere politeness he’s given to everyone else; but Hanamiya doesn’t respond, and doesn’t look back at him, and then he’s stepping out of the door to the room, and Imayoshi turns his attention back to the remaining students.

Grading the final exams is a particular chore. Imayoshi dreads this part of the school year, or would if he had enough emotional commitment to muster something like dread for it. The essays are long, and often poorly constructed, and with the end of the quarter the pressure to turn around grades rapidly is far higher than it is at any other point during the course. Imayoshi has dozens of exams to read through, and a weekend to do it; so he collects the exams, and takes them home with him, and pours himself a drink as he settles in to read through them.

They’re as bad as he expected. The arguments are often weak, the conclusions poorly constructed; even those few students who demonstrate a mastery of basic argumentation have weak conclusions, without any indication of thinking beyond the realm of the introductory concepts offered in the course. Imayoshi’s students are here to pass, nothing more; and many of them do, regardless of how much red ink he spills across the margins of their papers. Most of them won’t even come back to collect the graded essays; only a handful even care about their grade at a more granular level than for the class as a whole, and most of them care more about the cold number granting them an associated letter grade than any of the comments Imayoshi might offer. Still, he leaves comments, for the relief of his own irritation if nothing else, and he’s made it through a half-dozen exams and most of his drink by the time he sets the latest one aside, and reaches for the next, and sees Hanamiya’s name.

Imayoshi only hesitates for a moment. He’s not been deliberately looking forward to this, he hasn’t been expecting anything; but that doesn’t stop his spine from prickling, as if Hanamiya’s exam carries some friction of electricity to spark across Imayoshi’s skin just on contact with the paper. Imayoshi reaches out for his drink, swallows the last of the liquid inside; and then he reaches for Hanamiya’s exam and draws it in towards him so he can fold the front page back and start reading.

He doesn’t know what he expected. He’s been deliberately closing off his own imagination for weeks; even now, even with the reality of Hanamiya’s final essay in front of him, it’s too sudden for Imayoshi’s mind to catch up with even a glimmer of possibility before he’s seeing the first line of the paper, and whatever possibilities he may be entertaining disintegrate into absolute attention.

_Fuck you, senpai._

The words are clear, dragged into dark lines across the page and underlined individually, so aggressively Hanamiya’s pen all but tore through the paper. Imayoshi blinks at the lines of them, at the curves making up such a clear declaration as an opening; and then he skips to the next line, and the paragraph of text that follows, and he reads.

 _I don’t know what kind of game you think we’re playing. Maybe it’s not a game to you at all. Maybe you’re serious about this goody-two-shoes bullshit you’ve been trying to feed everyone in class, maybe you’ve turned over a new leaf and have become a new man. I don’t care. If you want to go ahead and play the conscientious grad student here to take care of his beloved underclassmen, go the fuck ahead. I don’t need to be taken care of and I don’t want anything to do with your shiny new sense of_ morality _. You acted like you were intelligent, like you had some actual backbone in you before. If you want to hide it, if you want to pretend to be one of the other idiots at this godforsaken excuse for a university, I don’t give a damn_.

Imayoshi is smiling. He can’t stop the curve of his mouth any more than he can stop the slow purr of heat in his veins; he wonders what Hanamiya would think if the other saw his expression now, wonders if Hanamiya would keep trying to cling to his transparent excuse of _not-caring_ with the pages of a full-length essay to prove him wrong before he even gives voice to the words. Imayoshi keeps reading.

 _I’ve been fucking with you, senpai. You wanted to make me a good little student, is that it? Wanted to play at being the kind, wise teacher to lead your students to the light of education and knowledge? Bullshit. You only ever caught me the first time because I_ let _you see me. If I wanted to I could coast through your whole class on other people’s work and you would never know the difference. Have you been enjoying my assignments? Boring, aren’t they? Bland? Inane?_ Ordinary _?_

 _I’m not ordinary. Remember the first assignment you had us turn in? You collected it the second week of class, asked everyone to hand it forward to the front. You didn’t notice you were missing a student’s assignment, did you? Funny thing, how my name ended up on someone else’s work. Happenstance, surely. An_ accident _._

The essay goes on. Hanamiya recites back every single assignment he’s turned in over the entire quarter, detailing a range of cheating that Imayoshi finds improbable at best, would think impossible if he didn’t have the pile of Hanamiya’s uncollected assignments next to him to look through. The details are too accurate, too complete for Imayoshi to find fault with them; and then there’s the fact that it’s Hanamiya making the claim, and Imayoshi has always been impressed by Hanamiya.

By the time he reaches the end of the essay Imayoshi’s smile has spread into a full-fledged grin; there’s the threat of laughter in his throat, a prickle of amusement pressing against the back of his tongue as he turns the page to read the last of Hanamiya’s dissertation.

 _You’ve been pretending to be a spineless scholar this whole quarter, as if I don’t know what your hands feel like on my throat, as if you don’t get off on having bruises and blood underneath your fingers. I_ know _you, senpai. You might fool everyone else but you can’t fool me._

_I don’t want to keep playing. Do you?_

_\- Makoto_

Imayoshi takes a breath and lets it out with slow intention. His fingertips are pressing against the smooth of the page before him; he touches the very edge of his fingernail against the ink of Hanamiya’s name, catches the friction against the texture of the paper and drags across it as if he’s trying to lift the black from the page to collect under his nails instead. Then he folds the book shut on itself, as gently as if he’s pressing a secret for safekeeping between the pages, and he leaves it in the middle of his desk as he gets to his feet and goes to run the heat of a shower for himself. He’s hard as he takes his clothes off, and hard the whole time he’s rinsing his hair clean and soaping the dust from the day off his skin; but he doesn’t reach down, doesn’t move to stroke himself into the relief of orgasm. He lets the anticipation build instead, lets the expectation curl in at the base of his spine and the back of his thoughts, and by the time he’s shutting the water off and going to towel himself dry he can feel the pressure of postponed desire knotting to the dull ache of want low in his stomach.

He thinks Hanamiya has earned that much from him, at least.


	18. Certain

_All:_

_The grading on your final exams is complete. Your final score on the test as well as in the class as a whole can be accessed online for your reference. Contact me directly with any questions._

_I will have the scored essays available for pickup during my regular office hours on Monday._

_Imayoshi S._

 

Imayoshi always gives his students the opportunity to collect their exams after they’ve turned them in. It’s an option he leaves available to them every quarter, even as quarter after quarter passes with no one taking him up on the offer. It’s easy enough to leave his office door open for the span of a few uninterrupted hours, and if someone more optimistic would be frustrated by the lack of interest shown by his students Imayoshi finds it entertaining, a validation of his usual cynicism and poor opinion of the general run of his pupils.

This quarter is different.

Imayoshi doesn’t bring his research to the office with him, today. He doesn’t hold any illusions about being able to keep his attention on anything productive at all for the course of this morning, not when his focus will continually be pulled sideways by the distant pace of footsteps in the quiet halls of the office building. At another time, in another quarter, he would have had his textbooks and notes with him just to grant himself the illusion of being busy and disinterested; but any such illusion would collapse as soon as it was observed, and Imayoshi doesn’t see any point to going through the motions when he knows them to be futile.

He doesn’t waste his effort on lost causes, after all.

Hanamiya isn’t waiting outside the door when Imayoshi arrives some ten minutes before the official office hours; Imayoshi hadn’t really been expecting him to be, either. The other’s desperation was clear in every ink-soaked line of his final essay; he doesn’t need to make a grand show of waiting for hours before Imayoshi arrives. He’ll be waiting anyway, just as he will have been waiting the whole of the weekend while Imayoshi worked his way through the finals he collected and issued grades to them, and he must have some sense of the answer he’ll be getting here if he checked his final score in the course, but numbers aren’t going to be enough to convey this, and Imayoshi is sure Hanamiya knows that as well as he does.

Imayoshi settles himself behind his desk upon his arrival, unloading the neat stacks of graded essays from his bag and piling them at one side of his desk. There’s no point in separating them by last name or some other sorting mechanism; there will be only one visitor today, he’s sure, and he already has that exam set aside in a separate compartment of his bag. It’s only after he’s aligned the rest as the unmoveable column they will remain that he slides Hanamiya’s exam free, and sets it in the center of his desk, and folds his hands to wait.

Hanamiya arrives fifteen minutes later. The building is quiet; Imayoshi thinks he could hear a door open anywhere in the space, maybe clearly enough to identify the source as well as the fact of the action. He can certainly hear the front door open, can hear the rush of wind spilling into the hallway as it swings itself shut to block off the silence of the interior from the murmur of the rest of the world; it’s only after it’s returned to its original location that the footsteps start, and even then they’re deliberate, measured, paced as if to a metronome instead of following the frantic speed Imayoshi has heard from them before. There’s the tap of a heel, the scuff of a sole, the press of a toe; Imayoshi can almost see Hanamiya’s approach just from the sound of his steps down the hallway, can almost frame the other’s appearance around the structure of that deliberate sound. He shuts his eyes for a moment, lets his imagination flare hot behind the darkness of his eyelids; and then he takes a breath, and opens his eyes to Hanamiya stepping around the corner of his office door.

Hanamiya stops just in the entrance, his scuffing steps slowing to halt him just within the frame of the doorway. For a moment they just look at each other: Imayoshi sitting behind his desk, Hanamiya standing in his doorway. Hanamiya’s not dressed up, either in his model student persona or the delinquent version just as much an act as the first; he’s wearing just a plain white t-shirt, the fabric thin enough Imayoshi can almost make out the texture of his skin underneath the cloth. His jeans are dark, a faded match for the scuffed black of his boots; even his hair is unstyled, combed to some measure of smoothness but otherwise left to fall into a dark curtain around his face and brushing his shoulders. His gaze is steady, his focus unswerving; he stares at Imayoshi without any trace of his usual amusement or ire either one, with nothing at all in his expression but consideration. He looks like a blank page, like an empty canvas, like the raw material for a whole infinity of personas laid bare and malleable for Imayoshi’s fingers.

Imayoshi takes a breath, holds it for a moment; and when he lets it out it shapes into a sigh, satisfaction so warm in his chest it tastes like relief on his tongue.

Hanamiya swallows. Imayoshi can see the motion work in his throat, can see the words forming themselves at the other’s lips. “Senpai.”

Imayoshi inclines his head into the careful angle of a nod. “Makoto.”

Hanamiya’s lashes dip, just for a moment. The reaction is as good as a moan, in the silent attention of the moment. “You failed me.”

“I did.” Imayoshi doesn’t look at Hanamiya’s final exam in front of him. He doesn’t need to. They both know what it says by heart, both know what it means down in the marrow of their bones. “Do you care?”

Hanamiya’s mouth cracks into a smile, just for a moment; his exhale shatters into laughter. “No.”

Imayoshi doesn’t look away from him. “Do you really need to pass this class to graduate?”

Hanamiya’s lashes dip again. His grin eases, softens into something almost sincere. “No.”

Imayoshi reaches for the edge of the exam in front of him, braces his fingers at the corner of the paper like he’s grounding himself, like he’s grounding Hanamiya. “Did you come here to pick this up?”

The smile evaporates. Hanamiya stares at Imayoshi for a moment. “No.”

Imayoshi holds Hanamiya’s gaze for a long second. It’s not a test, not this time; this is an indulgence, a moment to savour, a span of time with all the things that have yet to be voiced hanging so clear in the space between them Imayoshi thinks they could read them like a script, if either of them wished to. But he doesn’t want to, and Hanamiya has already spilled everything he had to say into the pages pinned under Imayoshi’s fingertips, and so there’s only one thing left to do.

Imayoshi pulls the essay back in towards himself, angling his fingers to press it tighter against the desk in front of him. “You know the apartment complex just north of downtown.”

Hanamiya actually rocks back on his heels, at that. His mouth comes open on his exhale; it’s a moment before he answers. “The one with the red doors and iron railings?”

“Yes.” Imayoshi holds Hanamiya’s gaze without flinching, without smiling, without so much as batting an eye. “Number forty-four.” Hanamiya’s lashes flutter again. His throat shifts on another swallow. “Do you need to write it down?”

Hanamiya’s fingers curl at his sides, a helpless tell for the tension Imayoshi can see flickering behind his eyes and straining in his neck. He doesn’t speak, just jerks his head in a quick negation.

“Good.” Imayoshi dips his head, enough to let the light catch and gleam his glasses into opacity. “My office hours will be over at two.” He looks down at the essay under the weight of his fingers, smoothes his touch out to press his palm to the cover. “Don’t be late, Makoto.”

It’s a command more than it is a warning. There’s no need for threats now, Imayoshi is sure, even before he hears the rush of Hanamiya’s breathing spilling out of him as if Imayoshi’s words hit with the weight of a punch to his ribs.

“Yes, senpai,” he says, and then he’s turning, understanding the dismissal as clearly as if Imayoshi had granted it actual words. Imayoshi keeps looking at the exam under his hand as he listens to Hanamiya scuff his way back down the hallway, doesn’t look up even at the sound of the front door opening and rattling itself to shut; but his mouth is curving on a smile, and under the weight of his hand the texture of the paper is warm against his skin.


	19. Leap

The knock against Imayoshi’s front door is clear.

Imayoshi can hear it from his desk, where he’s settled for the few minutes of time he had left after preparing the rest of his apartment for what is to come. He hasn’t been reading, hasn’t bothered to reach for anything to distract him over the brief gap of time; it’s enough to know what will be coming, enough to let his gaze go unfocused as his imagination uncurls into possibility, into the warm thrum of anticipation so sweet in him it’s nearly appreciation all in itself. Imayoshi doesn’t have to think about the smile at his lips, either to draw it there or to fight it back; it’s a natural occurrence, a reasonable conclusion, and he’s still nursing it when the knock comes, the rap of a fist against the surface ringing a single unhesitating note and then going utterly silent. Imayoshi shuts his eyes with the sound still clear in the air, takes a breath to fill his lungs with the last breath of looking-forward; and then he sighs his exhale, and braces a hand at the surface of his desk, and pushes himself up so he can walk to the door on silent feet.

He doesn’t make any sound as he approaches. The sound of his footsteps is muffled by the care with which he steps; he can hardly hear his footfalls himself, he’s absolutely sure they are inaudible on the other side of the door. But Hanamiya doesn’t look surprised when Imayoshi pulls the door open; he doesn’t look startled, or desperate, or even anxious in that tight-wound way he did after winter break. His gaze is steady, his mouth is set; his lashes flutter when he sees Imayoshi on the other side of the door, his fingers twitch at his sides for a moment of reflexive reaction, but other than that there’s no visible reaction at all.

He looks expectant. He looks patient. He looks _ready_.

“Makoto,” Imayoshi says, and he steps aside from the door, keeping a hand braced against the surface to hold the weight of it open as he gestures the other inside. He doesn’t give voice to the invitation and Hanamiya doesn’t hesitate for it; he ducks his head instead, watching his footing as he steps up onto the edge of Imayoshi’s entryway in obedience to the other’s gesture. Imayoshi waits until Hanamiya is past him, moving so closely that he can feel the catch of the other’s shirt against his own, that he can smell the almost-spicy weight of Hanamiya’s hair when he breathes in; and then he lets the door fall shut to block away the clear illumination of the sunlight outside and leave them in the shadows of his apartment instead.

“Take off your shoes,” Imayoshi says without turning. He’s stepping in towards the door, drawing the latch into place against the frame and turning the lock with a single certain action; Hanamiya takes a breath at the _click_ of the mechanism falling into place, his inhale hissing at the back of his throat with his reaction. When Imayoshi looks back over his shoulder at him Hanamiya is watching the other’s hands against the door, his gaze fixed on the shift of Imayoshi’s fingers instead of his own feet, and whatever calm he managed to attain on the front step has melted into dark-eyed heat as he stares at Imayoshi’s movement.

Imayoshi’s hand moves smoothly, following an elegant arc from the lock of the door up and back to crack against the side of Hanamiya’s face. The slap is casual, almost unthinking, but it lands with enough force to knock Hanamiya’s head to the side and to blow the breath from his lungs in one startled rush.

“I told you to take off your shoes,” Imayoshi says, his voice calm and so even it sounds nearly friendly. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hanamiya gasps, lifting his hand to his face to press against the rising color left by Imayoshi’s hand smacking against his skin, but it’s not a sound of protest; there’s a heat under it, a shadow fitting against the other’s throat until Imayoshi wonders if he won’t have to offer another abuse, rougher this time, enough to cut past the effect of Hanamiya’s masochism. But Hanamiya is obeying after all, dropping to sit heavily at the edge of the entryway so he can drag the laces of his boots free and pull the shoes off his feet entirely, and so Imayoshi lets him be, relinquishing the satisfaction of the other’s pain in favor of the compliance he is so perfectly demonstrating. He stays where he is, standing between Hanamiya and the locked door while he looks down at the other dragging his shoes off to cast roughly towards the far edge of the tiled entrance, and he’s still watching when Hanamiya tips his head to look up through his hair at Imayoshi, his gaze dark and heavy as he touches the wet of his tongue against the part of his lips.

“Makoto,” Imayoshi says again, tasting the vowels of the other’s name on his tongue as they unfold into heat against the back of his throat, as they wind around the desire unfurling in him with the slow stretch of relief from the weeks it’s been held in check. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Hanamiya’s laugh is sharp, shattering over the back of his throat as his lashes dip, as his mouth drags onto a flashing grin. He doesn’t move to get to his feet. “I’m not an idiot, senpai.”

“I know,” Imayoshi says. “You’re a genius.” He takes a half-step closer, so near his ankle brushes Hanamiya’s knee; when he reaches out he can fit his fingers into the heavy slick of Hanamiya’s hair, can push the curtain of it back to bare the other’s face to the minimal illumination in the entryway. “But that’s not an answer.”

Hanamiya’s eyes narrow, his mouth twists on a frown. “What, you want me to confess my undying love to you like some stupid romantic drama?”

The corner of Imayoshi’s mouth twists, dragging up into the start of a laugh too sharp for him to entirely repress. “No.” He tightens his hand on Hanamiya’s hair, making a fist of the strands so they pull taut against the other’s scalp; Hanamiya’s head angles back in a futile attempt to ease the pull, his breath hisses out of him in a rush of pain, but Imayoshi doesn’t let his hold go, even as Hanamiya’s irritation gives way to a flinch of hurt instead. “I want you to agree to what this is before I go any further.” He reaches out with his free hand to touch his fingertips to Hanamiya’s throat, to trace his touch down against the straining tendons in the other’s neck; Hanamiya shudders an inhale, his lashes dipping heavy over his eyes, but Imayoshi doesn’t close his hand against Hanamiya’s throat, doesn’t even offer the weight of his palm for the other’s breathing. “What is this, Makoto?”

Hanamiya hisses a breath, the sound dragging raw against the back of his teeth. “You really need me to say it?”

“No.” Imayoshi draws his hand up against Hanamiya’s throat, weighting the threat of friction against the other’s skin until he can sink his fingers into Hanamiya’s hair, until he can shove the other’s head far back between the press of his hands. Hanamiya arches into it, his spine curving to surrender as Imayoshi pushes until he’s staring straight up, his blown-dark eyes wide and fixed on Imayoshi’s face as the other leans in over him. “I _want_ you to say it.”

Hanamiya’s lashes dip, his tongue drags against his lower lip again. His mouth is wet, as slick with promise as his heavy-lidded haze is. “Senpai.” His voice is raw, ragged like he’s been screaming, or like the strain of weeks of unsatisfied want is finally forcing itself to print on his vocal chords like a scar of Imayoshi’s inattention. “This is a relationship.”

Imayoshi hums a sound far in the back of his throat. “Yes.”

“I want you,” Hanamiya says, continuing unprompted, offering words that tear into raw pleas in the space between his lips and Imayoshi’s ears. “Please, senpai.”

Imayoshi slides a hand up against Hanamiya’s temple, pushes his thumb in hard against the dark of the other’s hairline. “Only me?” Hanamiya nods, a short, jerky movement cut off against the press of Imayoshi’s hands. Imayoshi tightens the fist he’s made in Hanamiya’s hair. “Tell me.”

Hanamiya’s throat shifts, his lashes flutter. “And then will you fuck me?”

Imayoshi’s mouth drags tighter at the corner. “And then I’ll do whatever I want with you.” Hanamiya’s lips part, his breathing cracks on a groan; Imayoshi slides his hand up to press his palm hard against the other’s forehead. “Tell me, Makoto.”

“Yes,” Hanamiya says, his head tipped back, his mouth wet, the dark of his gaze fixed full on Imayoshi’s face. “Just you, senpai. _Only_ you.”

Imayoshi takes a breath, feels the rush of satisfaction that runs as deep in his veins as the shuddering relief of orgasm. “Yes,” he says, a sigh of relief as much as agreement for Hanamiya to hear, and he leans in, bracing himself with the pull of his fist in Hanamiya’s hair as he lowers his weight to drop his knee alongside the other’s hip. Hanamiya hisses at the pull, his forehead creasing with the pain of Imayoshi’s hand dragging at his hair, but Imayoshi doesn’t wait for the other to recover from the hurt, doesn’t even ease the pull of his fingers before he’s shoving his free hand back into Hanamiya’s hair and leaning in to crush his mouth to the other’s. Hanamiya’s whine of protest breaks off sharply, giving way to a gasp of shock that Imayoshi can taste over his tongue; and then, without Imayoshi asking him to, without any delay at all, he’s parting his lips wide, making an offering of the wet heat of his mouth as fast as Imayoshi licks in and against his tongue. Hanamiya tastes bitter, dark and biting like smoke all against the wet heat of his mouth, but Imayoshi doesn’t pull away; he’s pressing in harder, licking as far into Hanamiya’s mouth as he can reach, mapping out the slick heat of Hanamiya’s tongue and the ticklish roof of the other’s mouth and the sharp edges of his teeth like he’s laying claim, like he’s mapping out newly-explored territory with the press of his mouth. Hanamiya is groaning against his lips, offering up a plaintive note of desperate heat for the catch of Imayoshi’s mouth at his; and then his hands come up, his fingers catch to drag at Imayoshi’s shirt, and Imayoshi shoves him away all at once, breaking away from Hanamiya’s mouth and pushing the other back so hard he falls against the tile of the entryway to bruise his shoulder against the surface.

“ _Ah_ ,” Hanamiya hisses, pain spilling from the curl of his lips as he gets a hand out to push himself upright from the floor. “ _Senpai_ , what the f--” but Imayoshi is on top of him again, without giving Hanamiya any kind of chance to collect himself or his words back into coherency. Hanamiya’s lashes flutter with the press of Imayoshi’s mouth to his, his throat breaks onto another one of those helpless moans, and Imayoshi braces a hand at Hanamiya’s chest to hold the other flat to the floor while he catches his teeth at the edge of the other’s wet lips, while he digs into the shape of a bite until Hanamiya whines with the hurt of it. Imayoshi presses down for another moment, hard enough that he can feel Hanamiya’s lip bruising under his teeth, can feel the swelling of damage flushing hot against his mouth; and then he lets go, releasing Hanamiya to gasp for air against the floor under him while Imayoshi pulls back to consider the other.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, considering the flush high across Hanamiya’s cheeks and the swollen red of the other’s lips. “Is this what you thought about me doing to you?” He lets the hand at Hanamiya’s chest take the full force of his weight to free his other; Hanamiya groans against the force, the air rushing out of him under the weight so he’s left with only panting, shallow inhales, but when he reaches for Imayoshi’s shirt his touch is grasping instead of pushing, an urging in instead of forcing away. Imayoshi sets his hand at the bottom edge of Hanamiya’s ribcage, spreads his fingers wide over the soft of the t-shirt as he slides his palm down across the other’s stomach; Hanamiya’s lashes weight, his hips jolt up like he’s trying to meet Imayoshi’s touch before it’s yet made it to the edge of his jeans. Imayoshi hums and hesitates in his motion for a moment, just to see the way Hanamiya’s mouth dips into a frown and to hear the whine of breathless protest the other offers. “Like this?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya groans, his voice breaking hard at the back of his throat. “ _Yes_ , pl _ease_.”

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums, and when tension urges at the corners of his mouth he lets his smile curve across his lips, lets the edge of it show the white of his teeth. “Your imagination needs development.” He lets his hand slide lower, pressing harder as he goes until the weight of his palm is pressing denim in flush against Hanamiya’s stomach. “Let me _educate_ you.” And he drags down, hard, running the weight of his touch down over the whole heat of Hanamiya’s cock inside his jeans in a single smooth stroke. Hanamiya’s eyes roll back, his mouth comes open on a voiceless groan, and Imayoshi tightens his fingers, curling his hand into a bracing hold to pin Hanamiya’s jeans tight against the length of his cock.

“This is as far as your imagination made it?” he asks, grinding his palm in hard against the head of Hanamiya’s cock through the denim so he can see the way it makes the other’s head go back, so he can watch the strain of reaction flex against the whole line of Hanamiya’s throat. “Fucking against my hand until you came in the entry of my apartment?”

“Sure,” Hanamiya gasps. His eyes are nearly shut; Imayoshi is certain the other isn’t seeing anything, suspects Hanamiya has only the haziest grasp of language right now. “Anything.”

“Anything I want,” Imayoshi repeats, thumbing at Hanamiya’s zipper to grind the friction of it against the other and draw a hiss of reaction out of his throat. “You must be really desperate for this, Makoto.” He slides his hand farther up Hanamiya’s chest, fits the weight of his palm between the other’s collarbones instead of against the thrum of his heartbeat. “Have you been waiting for me all morning?”

Hanamiya’s laugh comes out as a cough, almost more of a sob than anything else. “You noticed, then?”

Imayoshi’s smile drags wider. “Don’t insult me, Makoto.”

Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, lifting from over his eyes enough for Imayoshi to see the narrow ring of gold around the wide black of his pupils. His gaze catches at Imayoshi’s for a moment, drops down to the other’s mouth like he’s scanning his face; Imayoshi doesn’t think Hanamiya realizes the way his lips part, doesn’t think the desperate angle of the other’s mouth is deliberate as much as reflexive. It doesn’t matter anyway, not when the only other player in Hanamiya’s games is Imayoshi.

“I waited,” Hanamiya says. “I wanted you this morning but--” He shakes his head, rejection of that idea given instinctive shape. “It’s not as good by myself.”

Imayoshi lets one eyebrow lift. “You were patient,” he purrs, and draws his hand up in a long, slow drag against Hanamiya’s length. “Good boy.” Hanamiya shudders under his touch, his hips jerking up again in that stutter-stop desperation, and Imayoshi’s smile breaks wide across his face, going brilliant with the satisfaction spreading so warm through his chest. “I think I’ll reward you for that.”

“Oh,” Hanamiya gasps, and then “ _Oh_ ,” sharper, edged with frustration as Imayoshi slides his touch up and away from the other’s hips. Hanamiya’s eyes open wide, he lifts his head from the floor; the dark of his brows knit together, forming a sharp angle of anger across his forehead. “What, why are you _stopping_ , I thought you--”

“Shut up, Makoto,” Imayoshi orders, and closes his hand at Hanamiya’s hip, hard enough that his fingers catch and dig in against the sharp angle of bone under the other’s skin. “Turn over” and he’s moving before Hanamiya has a chance to obey of his own accord, shoving hard against the other’s hip as he pulls away to turn him over onto his stomach. Hanamiya topples face-down onto the floor, gasping a breath that might be heat and might be shock, Imayoshi isn’t sure which and doesn’t care; it doesn’t make a difference, anyway, not with Hanamiya shuddering for air against the floor in front of him with the thin fabric of his t-shirt riding up over the dip of his spine.

“Like this,” Imayoshi purrs, and he reaches out to fit his fingertips against the curve of the other’s skin, to run his touch against the knobs forming out the dip and bend of Hanamiya’s spine under him. Hanamiya moans in the back of his throat, turns his head down against the floor as his fingers tense for traction, and as Imayoshi’s touch slides up Hanamiya’s hips rise too, arcing up off the floor like he’s begging for Imayoshi to shove him back down, like he’s ready to make an offering of his whole body just for the weight of Imayoshi’s fingers on him. Imayoshi smiles unseen at the angle of Hanamiya’s shoulders, feeling his breathing catch to fire in his veins, and when he reaches for the other’s jeans it’s to curl his free hand in against the back of them, to fit his fingertips into the gap between the waistband and the angle of Hanamiya’s hips. Hanamiya shudders with the contact, his whole body curving like it’s a wave breaking against the cliff of Imayoshi’s touch, and Imayoshi leans in closer, lets his shoulders angle forward to trail the magnetism of Hanamiya’s body under his while he braces himself against the shudder of the other’s spine and the angle of his open knees.

“This is what _I_ thought about,” he says, low, letting the words spill hot from his lips as he tenses his fingers against Hanamiya’s spine and pushes against the hand at the other’s jeans. Hanamiya’s hips jerk, his throat gives up a groan, but he doesn’t try to speak, and Imayoshi goes on talking over him as he pulls Hanamiya’s pants free of his hips by force. “No office, no classroom. No _audience_ ,” as Hanamiya’s jeans drag free, as Hanamiya hisses involuntary reaction to the waistband catching and pulling at the strain of his cock. “No one to see you but me.”

Hanamiya’s laugh is a huff against the floor, wet and gasping more than the sharp-edged amusement Imayoshi has heard from him before. “You’re _possessive_ , senpai,” he says, turning his head against the floor to cut his gaze up through the weight of his hair and back to Imayoshi leaning over him. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Imayoshi tells him, the words harsh with all the judgment he can give them while he’s pushing Hanamiya’s clothes off the angle of his hips and down the tremor in his thighs. The waistband fits tightly with the fly still fastened -- it drags the flush of friction in its wake, Imayoshi can see the color rising over the usual pallor of Hanamiya’s skin -- but Hanamiya is rocking back instead of flinching away, like he’s leaning into the pain or just too desperate for Imayoshi’s touch to care. “Genius or otherwise.”

“I guess not,” Hanamiya says, even turning that admission to a groan as Imayoshi pushes the other’s jeans down around his knees and brings his hand back up to press against the curve of Hanamiya’s ass. He turns his head down against the floor, hunching his shoulders and bracing himself at his elbows as he bucks back hard against Imayoshi’s hands at him. “Does that mean exhibitionism is off the table, then?”

“Not necessarily,” Imayoshi informs him, finally drawing his touch away from Hanamiya’s spine so he can reach for his pocket instead. Hanamiya shudders at the loss, his shoulders flexing sharply under his skin, but he doesn’t put voice to the protest and Imayoshi is left to work the slick bottle free of the pocket of his jeans, where he fit it before the other’s arrival. “I’m not opposed to showing you off once we both know who you belong to.” The lid comes open under his thumb, the liquid inside spills easily as he upends it over his fingers braced at Hanamiya’s skin; Hanamiya jerks with the cold of it, hissing past his teeth at the spill, but Imayoshi’s hold keeps him steady as he closes the bottle again and tosses it aside to be forgotten. “That’s for later, though.”

“Are you still worried about that, senpai?” Hanamiya manages to get out. His voice is muffled against the floor; it comes out strained even while Imayoshi is still drawing his fingers through the slick spilled across Hanamiya’s skin to coat his hand with the liquid. “What else do you need to do to put your mark on me?”

Imayoshi’s mouth drags on a smile, his grin tugging taut at his lips in answer to the question Hanamiya surely meant to be rhetorical. “I’ll have to think about it,” he says, and then he presses his finger against Hanamiya’s entrance, barely giving the other time to start hissing an inhale of understanding before he’s shoving hard to force himself into the other’s body. Hanamiya loses his grasp on his breathing, the air in his lungs rushes out of him in a shocked groan of reaction that Imayoshi can feel tighten reflexively around his touch; but Imayoshi just reaches to close his fingers hard at Hanamiya’s hip to brace him in place while he pushes in deeper. “This is a good place to start, though, don’t you think?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya spits against the floor, his fingers curling in against his palms to make fists against the surface. He’s clenching around Imayoshi’s touch, his body seizing tight on the intrusion with force enough for Imayoshi to feel but not enough to push him back. “ _Senpai_.”

“Yes,” Imayoshi says, answer to his own question and to the wordless plea of Hanamiya’s tone, and he thrusts in deep at once, sinking his touch as far inside Hanamiya as he can reach. Hanamiya moans in the back of his throat, the sound raw and desperate with want, and Imayoshi draws his touch back, savouring the slow drag of friction against his finger as he pulls out almost entirely before reversing his motion and coming back for another penetrating stroke. “I thought so.” He tightens his hold at Hanamiya’s hip, digging his fingers in tight enough that his nails catch Hanamiya’s skin and tear against the give of it as he leans in over the sharp slope of the other’s spine. “Did you think about this, Makoto?” He takes another stroke, faster than the last as his movements fit into a rhythm, as the flex of his arm and the shift of his wrist find a pattern with the tension of Hanamiya’s body under him. “Did you miss the way I feel inside you?”

Hanamiya makes a strained sound in the back of his throat, something shaky and helpless as he shoves against the floor to rock himself back against Imayoshi’s finger. Imayoshi shoves in hard, breaking his rhythm for the satisfaction of jolting heat up Hanamiya’s spine and forcing the other’s voice from him in a moan so sharp it’s almost a yelp. “Tell me.”

“Hhh,” Hanamiya groans. “ _Senpai_.”

“Use your words,” Imayoshi instructs him. “Persuade me or I won’t fuck you at all.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Hanamiya hisses. “You didn’t fuck me _last_ time even after I--”

“This isn’t last time,” Imayoshi says, talking loudly so his voice cuts off the plaintive whine of Hanamiya’s. “I thought you had learned better than to underestimate me, Makoto.”

“Fuck,” Hanamiya says, his voice going so soft against the floor under him Imayoshi can barely hear the give of his breath on the word. He tips his head to the side again, glaring through his hair at Imayoshi. “What do you _want_ , senpai?”

Imayoshi lets his hold at Hanamiya’s hip go, brings his hand out to snap his palm in a sharp _crack_ against the side of Hanamiya’s thigh without drawing his touch free of the other’s body. Hanamiya jerks at the blow, his body tensing involuntarily against the pain as he hisses unvoiced protest in the back of his throat, and Imayoshi speaks over his reaction, his words clear and cold enough that Hanamiya will hear them even past the distraction of pain from the slap. “Don’t play the fool with me, Makoto.” He shoves in hard against the other’s body, letting his touch drive deep with force more than care. “I’ve _told_ you what I want.” He slides his touch back slowly, this time, undoing that harsh forward motion with deliberate care. “This isn’t the time for your games.”

Hanamiya’s gaze flickers away, his mouth sets. The surrender of the motion makes his agreement clear, even if he hadn’t already made such a display of his obedience this morning as to make Imayoshi’s expectations more certain than hopeful. All he has to do now is watch Hanamiya’s lashes dip, watch his throat work on the swallow he takes to brace himself, and then Hanamiya turns his head back to the floor and starts to speak.

“I want you,” he says, his voice softer than what went before, like he’s trying to hide the words against the floor. “Only you, senpai.”

Imayoshi smacks him again, right on top of the rising bruise from his last blow, and Hanamiya jerks under him with a sound as much moan as shock. “Speak up, Makoto.”

“ _I want you_ ,” Hanamiya says again, louder as ordered, almost shouting against the floor as he tips his head down farther. “I _only_ want you. I can’t think about anyone else, I don’t _want_ anyone else, no one else is _enough_.”

Imayoshi hums far in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says, sliding his finger back and almost out of Hanamiya’s body. “Go on.”

“I thought about you every night this quarter,” Hanamiya says immediately, like the words are spilling from his lips at Imayoshi’s command. “I wanted--” and his voice breaks into a shuddering moan as Imayoshi pushes into him with two fingers together to stretch against the tension of the other’s entrance. “ _Senpai_.”

“Keep talking,” Imayoshi tells him. “You wanted?”

Hanamiya’s shoulders flex, his spine curves, but: “You,” he manages, whining the word against the floor like he’s breaking around it, like it’s weighting as hard in his throat as Imayoshi’s fingers are stretching into the space of his body. “I wanted you, I kept thinking about _you_ , about what you would do to me, about what you _had_ done to me.”

“While jerking yourself off?”

Hanamiya’s laugh is harsh. “I _tried_ ,” he grates. “Came, sometimes, even, but it was never enough, it was never _satisfying_ , no matter what I did.” He gasps a lungful of air and goes on speaking, without being prompted this time, like Imayoshi is pulling the words from him on the stroke of his fingers. “I kept thinking about you with other people, about you _fucking_ other people.” His tight-clenched hand comes up to shove at his hair, his fingers twist to pull sharply at the strands. “I almost dropped your class but I didn’t know if that would be enough for you to--” He gusts an exhale, the sound so raw it’s almost a sob. “I thought I was going to go crazy from waiting.”

“I thought you were too,” Imayoshi purrs. He fits his hand to the angry red rising at Hanamiya’s thigh, feels the muscles jump under his hand before he slides his touch up to wander against the angle of the other’s hip and higher, to skim the line of his waist. “You certainly looked it when you showed up to lecture.”

“That was the worst,” Hanamiya says. “To have you right there where I could see you and _hear_ you but you wouldn’t even _look_ at me, it was like I didn’t even _exist_ to you anymore.”

“I know,” Imayoshi says. His fingers are moving easily, now, stroking through a rhythm that is bringing Hanamiya rocking back to meet each forward thrust with a motion Imayoshi is very sure is reflexive more than deliberate. “I’m looking at you now.”

“ _Good_ ,” Hanamiya says with vicious sincerity. “ _Keep_ looking at me. I don’t want you to ever stop.”

“Mm,” Imayoshi purrs. “What _do_ you want instead, Makoto?”

“I want _you_ ,” Hanamiya whines. “I want to be _yours_.”

“Mine,” Imayoshi repeats back. His hand settles at Hanamiya’s waist, his fingers tighten to dig hard against the soft of the other’s stomach; when he pulls Hanamiya back it’s to press his hips to the back of the other’s leg, to grind himself in against the resistance of the other’s body. “Are you so sure about that?”

“Yes,” Hanamiya says immediately. “I don’t care what you do to me.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

Hanamiya whimpers in the back of his throat. “Yes.”

“I’ll break you.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll _own_ you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hanamiya moans. “ _Please_ , senpai, I want you to _use_ me.”

“Ah,” Imayoshi breathes, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment to ride out the surge of heat that hits him at that, that rushes up his spine and knots to heat deep in his stomach. “Yes” and he slides his fingers back and out of Hanamiya all at once. There’s the slick sound of wet on wet as his touch comes free, a backdrop for the huff of an exhale Hanamiya gives him, and Imayoshi lets his hold on the other go so he can unfasten the front of his jeans instead. Hanamiya’s thighs flex, his spine dips down to angle his hips up into open invitation, and Imayoshi’s mouth tugs into a smile as he unfastens the front of his jeans and pushes the fabric down to free the heat of his cock.

Imayoshi oses his slick hand around himself, fitting the curl of his fingers in against the flushed curve of his length as he strokes up; his free hand comes out, reaching over the gap between himself and Hanamiya to sink into the dark tangle of the other’s hair, his fingers sliding in close against Hanamiya’s scalp until he’s cradling the back of the other’s skull in his palm. Hanamiya is panting against the floor, his shoulders trembling against the support under him and his clenched fingers working convulsively against his palms like he can’t manage to lie still with the force of the adrenaline coursing through him. Imayoshi presses hard against the back of Hanamiya’s head, leaning in so his weight will shove the other down against the floor; and at Hanamiya’s hips, where Imayoshi’s knees are pressing close against the open angle of the other’s, he closes his grip at the base of his cock to hold himself steady against Hanamiya’s entrance. He presses against Hanamiya, the heat of his cock pushes against the tension of the other’s body, Hanamiya gasps a breath that drags on the heat of want in his chest; and Imayoshi takes a breath, and sighs a deliberate exhale, and lets his hips thrust forward to slide his cock deep into the slick-stretched heat of Hanamiya’s body.

It’s too much at once. Imayoshi knew it would be, was braced for the surge of satisfaction that would hit him; but Hanamiya shudders convulsively under him, like all the tension he has always carried in him is going slack with the heat of Imayoshi’s cock driving into him, and in the first grip of Hanamiya clenching against him Imayoshi wonders if he isn’t going to come immediately, with his orgasm pulled unexpectedly free of his control just by the friction of Hanamiya quivering around him. His fingers still at the base of his cock tense, his grip seizing tight for the first moment of near-panic; and then he manages a breath, and his vision clears, and he regains control of himself just as Hanamiya gives voice to a full-throated moan of heat against the floor.

“ _Senpai_ ” and his voice makes it a prayer, makes it a curse, pulls all the familiar syllables apart until that one word sounds like a pledge of devotion, like a vow of loyalty, like Hanamiya is baring the cracked structure of his broken soul for Imayoshi over him. Imayoshi’s fingers tighten against Hanamiya’s scalp, his thighs tense in a reflexive jolt to press him deeper; and Hanamiya shudders again, his hand uncurling from its fist at the floor to come up instead so he can close his grip around Imayoshi’s wrist where the other is pinning him down. It’s not an attempt to pull the other’s hold free; the pressure of his fingers is a grounding point, the desperation of a drowning man clutching at the last rope in reach, like Hanamiya is acting more on instinct than conscious thought.

Imayoshi takes a breath, feels the power of it radiate through all his bones. “Yes,” he says, and then he lets his grip at his cock go, and presses his fingers to Hanamiya’s hip instead, and holds the other steady while he draws back to slide forward through another thrust. Hanamiya moans with this one too, his fingers flexing bruise-hard at Imayoshi’s wrist as his body tenses around the breadth of the other’s cock, and Imayoshi fixes his gaze at the back of Hanamiya’s neck and settles himself into a rhythm for the flex of his thighs and the forward tilt of his hips. He’s taking each thrust to the fullest, pressing forward until his hips are flush with Hanamiya’s ass, until Hanamiya’s trembling reactions are bearing down at the very base of his cock; but Hanamiya moans with each forward motion, and shudders with each withdrawal, and Imayoshi feels like a musician, like a prodigy drawing out the full range of an instrument that has never been properly played before.

“Makoto,” he murmurs, shaping the other’s name around the forward tilt of his hips, around the angle of his motion as he presses deeper, as he grinds himself in against the resistance. Hanamiya’s whole body trembles, his back shifting with the force; under the fall of his loose shirt his shoulders flex, the bones shifting tight against the skin like they’re searching for a space to break free. Imayoshi presses harder against Hanamiya’s head, forcing the other down against the ground to steady his own weight as he eases his hold at the other’s hip and lets his hand slide down, trailing a path of slick wet across Hanamiya’s skin as he moves. “Do you want to come?”

“ _God_ ,” Hanamiya whines. “ _Yes_.”

“Like this?” Imayoshi asks, pressing in with his fingers to feel the way the soft of Hanamiya’s stomach dips to the force, to feel the other’s body giving way to him twice over, between his fingers and against his cock. “You want me to let you come like this?” He flattens his palm to Hanamiya’s stomach, slides his touch in sideways to find the dip of the other’s navel. “Do you want me to _make_ you come like this?”

Imayoshi can feel the strain of the breath Hanamiya exhales, can feel the flutter of the motion in the taut muscle under his palm. “ _Oh_ ,” Hanamiya groans. “Fuck, _senpai_.”

“I’m going to,” Imayoshi promises, and he lifts his palm from Hanamiya’s stomach, arching his hand up to leave just the ticklish press of his fingertips against the other’s body as he trails his hand down towards Hanamiya’s hips. “You’re going to come when I want you to, aren’t you, Makoto?”

Hanamiya’s fingers tense at Imayoshi’s wrist, Hanamiya’s chest strains on a groan. “ _Yes_.”

“You’re going to come for me,” Imayoshi says, and then Hanamiya’s cock is bumping at his wrist and he’s dropping his hand to close around the heat of it, and Hanamiya is groaning so loud it nearly drowns out the clear intention of Imayoshi’s words. “Makoto. Are you listening?” Imayoshi tightens his hold, bracing his grip into place as he settles his weight over Hanamiya beneath him; and then he starts to stroke, dragging what slick remains at his palm up over Hanamiya’s length with the same harsh pace he’s setting with his hips. Hanamiya jerks, his hold at Imayoshi’s wrist pulling so hard he nearly dislodges the other’s grip; but Imayoshi just tightens his fingers at Hanamiya’s scalp, and presses against the curve of the other’s skull to brace himself steady, and keeps moving. “You’re going to come for me from now on, Makoto. _Only_ for me.” Imayoshi’s thumb digs in hard under the head of Hanamiya’s cock; he bears down against the delicate skin, threatening the weight of his nail against the soft while his grip strokes rough over the curve of the other’s length. “When and how I decide.” He lets the pressure go, lets his thumb slip up to slide over the swollen head of Hanamiya’s cock, to weight against the wet slit at the head. “Say yes, Makoto.”

Hanamiya drags a breath past his throat. Imayoshi can hear the catch of it, can hear the heat bearing down against the other’s breathing as clearly as he can feel it thrumming tension through the cock in his hand and tightening around him with every forward thrust of his hips. “Yes.”

“Good,” Imayoshi purrs, the praise running down his spine to unfurl into heat low in his abdomen like it’s collecting against the straining heat of his cock. “Now. Do you know what I want right now?”

Hanamiya whines. “You--you want me to come.”

“That’s right,” Imayoshi says, and he pulls hard at Hanamiya’s cock, dragging his hold against the heat of it until he can feel Hanamiya’s legs tensing, until he can hear Hanamiya’s breathing going ragged. “You’re going to come for me.” He leans hard against the other’s head, tipping his weight in so he can bring his lips closer to Hanamiya’s ear. “Now, Makoto.” His grip twists, his fingers drag rough against the other’s length; and Hanamiya sucks in a breath like he’s been shocked, his whole body tensing for a brief moment of expectation. Imayoshi can feel the pressure tight around him, can hear the stall in Hanamiya’s breathing, and his fingers in Hanamiya’s hair tighten to a fist.

“Say my name,” he orders, his words cracking like a whip through the air. Hanamiya’s spine curves beneath him, his whole body straining as his orgasm spikes to rush over him; and “ _Shoichi_ ” he wails, his voice shattering against the vowels in Imayoshi’s name as his body convulses into pleasure beneath the other. Imayoshi’s chest tenses in reaction, his breathing catches on the first strain of appreciation; but Hanamiya doesn’t hear him, doesn’t offer a reaction to his telltale breath. Imayoshi is confident Hanamiya doesn’t have any space in his attention to note anything at all, really, beyond the waves of pleasure that are wringing his body so helplessly tight around Imayoshi inside him. It’s like he’s trying to pull Imayoshi over the edge into orgasm with him, like his body is doing its utmost to urge the other to pleasure as well; but Imayoshi sets his jaw, and steadies his breathing, and focuses on holding still and calm while he keeps his eyes open so he can watch Hanamiya come apart across the floor of his front entryway. Hanamiya’s cock is spilling wet over Imayoshi’s hold, twitching with each of the involuntary jolts of sensation wracking the other; and Imayoshi keeps stroking, watches Hanamiya’s shoulders jerk and listens to Hanamiya’s breathing shatter and keeps drawing the other’s orgasm longer by another stroke, by another heartbeat, until finally Hanamiya’s hold at Imayoshi’s wrist pushes, and Hanamiya’s spine curves up like he’s trying to flinch away, and when he opens his mouth it’s to whine “ _Senpai_ ” in a brittle range in the very back of his throat that makes the word into a plea all by itself. Imayoshi takes one more stroke, listening to the way Hanamiya’s inhale whimpers in the back of his throat; and then he lets his hold go, freeing his hand so he can reach up towards the rumpled weight of Hanamiya’s t-shirt against the back of his neck.

“Good,” he purrs as he fits the sticky drag of his fingers against Hanamiya’s neck, as he thumbs idly against the angle of bone taut under the other’s skin. “That’s exactly what I want.” He slides his fingers up through the tangle of Hanamiya’s hair and down, around until his fingers are curling against the shift of the other’s throat on his heat-raw breathing, until he can tighten his fingertips to weight against the thrum of Hanamiya’s pulse against the side of his neck.

“My turn,” Imayoshi purrs, and rocks his weight over his heels to draw back out of Hanamiya, to let his cock slide back over the inches of depth he’s gained. He can feel Hanamiya suck in a breath under his fingertips, can feel the edges of the other’s inhale go ragged on expectation; and then he snaps his hips forward, thrusting with the full force of his weight behind the motion, and under him Hanamiya shudders, his shoulders quaking with the force of Imayoshi’s movement. Imayoshi lets his hold on Hanamiya’s head go, drawing his grip free of the other’s hair so he can shake off the bruise-pressure of Hanamiya’s hold and brace his palm flat against the floor next to the other’s head, against the oil-slick spill of hair against the surface, and then he starts to move in earnest, with harsh forward jolts of his hips to drive his cock deep into Hanamiya with each thrust he takes in unflinching pursuit of his own pleasure. Hanamiya quakes with each movement, his body straining against the force that must surely be too much with him still flushed hot with the sensitivity of orgasm, but Imayoshi doesn’t slow, and doesn’t stop.

“You feel good, Makoto,” he says, offering the words to the back of the other’s head with as much calm as he can find in himself while his spine crackles with electricity, while his blood surges hotter with every reflexive tremor of Hanamiya’s body around him. “Better than I imagined, even.” Hanamiya huffs a breath, the exhale hard against Imayoshi’s fingers, and Imayoshi smiles down at him.

“Of course I thought about you,” he says, answering the question that went unvoiced under the rush of Hanamiya’s breathing. “Not _this_ quarter, of course. You’ve been my _student_.” He tightens his fingers against Hanamiya’s throat almost experimentally, just to feel the way the strain of tendons against the other’s neck gives way to the weight of his fingers. “But before. I had plenty of time to be _inventive_ with my fantasies.” It’s hard to get a grip on Hanamiya’s throat with his fingers wet with the other’s come; Imayoshi has to lean in closer, has to slide his hand around until he’s pressing the whole of his palm to Hanamiya’s throat, until he’s pulling up against gravity and letting Hanamiya’s own weight choke off the pace of his breathing in his chest. Imayoshi’s heart is racing, his breathing is rushing faster with the heat spiking in his veins; but Hanamiya is panting, struggling for every breath and then letting the air rush carelessly from him with each drive of Imayoshi’s cock into him.

“I’ll show you,” Imayoshi says, so close his lips are all but touching Hanamiya’s hair, close enough for his shirt to press against the sweat-slick of the other’s spine. “Next time. And the time after, and the time after that.” He lets his weight drop closer, lets his chest bear down against the desperate tension of Hanamiya’s shoulderblades under his shirt. “I’m going to show you everything I’ve thought about doing to you and you’re never going to want anything or any _one_ else.”

“I--” Hanamiya chokes, his throat straining against the burden of Imayoshi’s fingers against it. “I _don’t_ , senpai.”

“Yes,” Imayoshi says. The heat is rising up his spine, he can feel the weight of it coalescing low in the depths of his abdomen and stammering in the beat of his heart. “Tell me, Makoto.” A sharp thrust forward, his hips tilting to drag the head of his cock against the strain of Hanamiya’s body; Hanamiya moans in the depths of his chest, Imayoshi’s lashes dip on the force of heat rising in him. “Tell me you belong to me.”

“I belong to you,” Hanamiya grates out. “Senpai.” His fingertips catch for traction at the edge of the tile entryway, his hands straining with the futile effort to brace himself in place. “ _Shoichi_.” His shoulders dip, his arms flex; his body seizes hard against the pressure of Imayoshi’s cock inside him. “I love you.”

Imayoshi can feel Hanamiya’s words running straight through the whole of his body, like the vibration of them in the air is running up against his blood and humming to resonate against his bones, as if he’s breathing in the taste of Hanamiya’s submission over his tongue and into the space of his chest. His shoulders tense, his fingers tighten, and under him Hanamiya’s voice dies to breathless strain as Imayoshi’s hold forms bruise-dark fingerprints at the other’s skin. There’s tension rippling up Imayoshi’s spine, anticipation unfolding out into him like a flame consuming all his paper-thin doubts, and: “Ah,” Imayoshi breathes, “Makoto” in the moment before his hips buck forward and his whole body comes alight with the surging relief of orgasm. Hanamiya is trembling under him, his throat quivering against Imayoshi’s hold as surely as his body is clenching tight against the pulse of Imayoshi’s cock; but Imayoshi’s grip doesn’t waver, Imayoshi’s strength doesn’t falter. He just holds them still, bracing Hanamiya in place while Imayoshi rides out the wave of his own pleasure, while the whole of his awareness disentangles itself into the simple satisfaction of physical relief.

Imayoshi comes back into himself slowly, taking his time to fit his consciousness back inside the shape of his present reality. His fingers are still tight against Hanamiya’s throat; when he lets them go Hanamiya coughs low in his chest, expelling all the air from his lungs in a rush before heaving an inhale like he intends to make up for the lack all at once. That sets him off into a round of coughing that Imayoshi can feel tremoring through the resistance of Hanamiya’s body under him, but Imayoshi doesn’t wait for him to collect himself; he’s focused on his own composure instead, on the careful process of pushing back up over his knees and bracing his hands at Hanamiya’s hips to hold the other steady while he slides his cock free of the tension of Hanamiya’s body. Hanamiya whines at the friction, managing a sound nearly of protest between the gasping breaths he’s taking; but he has the sense, at least, not to give more coherent protest than this, and so Imayoshi leaves the other to catch his breath back while he pulls his clothes back into order and zips his fly back up.

Hanamiya has stopped coughing by the time he’s done, although he still hasn’t moved from the forward slump he has across the floor; he shudders when Imayoshi reaches out to touch against the lowest angle of his ribs, and when Imayoshi pushes hard Hanamiya topples sideways with boneless surrender, falling to sprawl across the floor without so much as lifting a hand in an attempt to catch himself. His mouth is red, his face flushed from his position; there’s a puddle of wet on the floor from where his lips were pressed that catches to a few stray strands of his hair. His eyes are unfocused when Imayoshi turns him over, his gaze fixed on the wall at Imayoshi’s doorway instead of on the other; but when Imayoshi says “Makoto” he doesn’t have to repeat himself before Hanamiya is blinking hard and turning his head to track the sound of the other’s voice. His lashes flutter over his hazy eyes, his mouth closes as he swallows; Imayoshi can watch the motion in the other’s swollen throat, can see the print of his grip in the grimace of pain that the motion pulls over Hanamiya’s face. The thought makes Imayoshi smile, pulls his lips into a curve he doesn’t try to restrain, and when Hanamiya blinks himself into focus on Imayoshi’s face Imayoshi reaches out to touch his fingers against the sharp angle of the other’s cheekbone so he can slide his touch in and back to cradle under the fall of Hanamiya’s hair, just against the soft place at the very back of his skull.

“Makoto,” Imayoshi says again, and watches the way Hanamiya’s eyelashes flutter to the sound of his voice, like the other’s body is a tuning fork struck against the resistance of Imayoshi’s presence. “Are you having fun yet?”

Hanamiya’s mouth drags up hard at the corner, his breath rushes out of him so suddenly his laugh goes ragged as a sob for the first moment.

“Senpai,” he says, and lifts a hand to clutch at Imayoshi’s shirt, to curl his fingers into a fist against the drape of the fabric. “I _love_ this game.”

Imayoshi’s laugh cracks in his chest to spill hot and sticky from his lips; but Hanamiya is grinning up at him, reflecting Imayoshi’s amusement back to him in the lopsided drag of his smile even as Imayoshi leans in to press his mouth to the wet heat of Hanamiya’s lips.

When he kisses him, Imayoshi can taste the bruise of Hanamiya’s words on his tongue.


	20. Amusement

Imayoshi is making good progress on his grading work.

He expected this most recent stack of assignments to take a few hours to sift through, between struggling through the poorly-constructed arguments and illegible handwriting and the mistaken belief that greater length will disguise a bad thesis. In the past this has been one of his least favorite assignments of the quarter, just for the effort it takes on his end once the essays are turned in; it’s almost enough to make him dread the process, if he were in the habit of dreading anything. But it’s going perfectly smoothly today; his mind is clear, his focus is steady, and whatever irritation would normally be rising in the back of his thoughts is undone as soon as it forms by the low hum of self-satisfaction that he’s had running through him for nearly the last hour. It’s easy to settle into comfort over his desk, and to work through assignment after assignment without counting the number of essays still left in the heap; by the time his phone buzzes at his elbow with the timer notification he set for himself he’s almost humming to himself with the pleasure in the back of his thoughts. He sets down the essay he’s in the middle of and reaches out to shut off his phone as he rocks back over his heels and rolls his shoulders out into comfort. His back strains pleasantly with its restored natural arch instead of the forward hunch he’s been sustaining; it’s enough to make him sigh relief as he shifts his legs to work warmth back into his half-numb feet.

He considers his phone while he moves. The time is displayed in clear numbers even with the lock screen still on; Imayoshi turns over the values in his head, running idle calculations as he reaches to unfasten the top button of his shirt and let the fabric fall a little farther open. It’s been an hour, now -- that’s what the alarm was for, after all -- but Imayoshi feels like he could muster the focus for another half hour at least, could maybe stay where he is and work through the rest of the essays before he stops for the day. He considers it -- settling himself back into place, tipping back in to lose himself in his work for another span of time -- and then there’s a faint sound from the shut door of his bedroom down the hallway, a groan muffled almost out of hearing by the barrier. Imayoshi can feel his cock twitch against the resistance of his pants, a reminder for the arousal he’s been ignoring all morning as thoroughly as he’s been ignoring those same half-heard noises; and whatever self-restraint he has been considering gives way entirely to the force of anticipation that rushes through all his body to flush his skin warm against the inside of his shirt. He pushes back from his desk, leaving his phone where it lies as he gets to his feet, and he paces down the hallway towards his bedroom, unfastening the buttons of his shirt as he goes.

Hanamiya is right where Imayoshi left him. This isn’t much of a surprise, given that his arms are bound at the small of his back and his ankles are splayed wide and held down against the corners of the bed by the rope Imayoshi wound around them this morning, when Hanamiya was still grinning with the reckless mania that tells him he can take anything, that whispers lies of endless resilience and self-control in the back of his thoughts that he never fails to believe no matter how many times Imayoshi proves him wrong.

He’s not smiling now. It would be hard enough for him to manage with the gag Imayoshi fit between his teeth before he left him here, but he’s not even making the attempt around the rolled-up fabric bracing hard against his teeth. He’s just lying on his stomach over the bed with his head tipped to the side, his eyes open but glazed and his whole body trembling visibly against the sheets under him. His skin is mottled with a flush, his back is slick with sweat; Imayoshi can see the wet heat collecting in the dip of the other’s spine and against the backs of his spread-open knees. And then there’s the motion of the vibrator against the tension of Hanamiya’s ass, the hum of it louder than the panting inhales Hanamiya is taking around the gag in his mouth as it works inside the other with the same merciless force as an hour ago, when Imayoshi first turned it on and left Hanamiya here.

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums from the doorway, keeping his gaze on Hanamiya while his fingers slide the last of his buttons free of his shirt. “Hello, Makoto.” Hanamiya’s head turns against the sheets, his hair falling over his sweat-flushed face as he tries to twist to look back at Imayoshi; the movement shifts his body, pressing against the vibrator at a different angle, and Hanamiya jerks with the action, his eyes rolling back for a moment as he shudders against the bed and falls back to his original position.

“You look good,” Imayoshi tells him without making a demand for the other’s attention. He doesn’t think Hanamiya is capable of giving him his full attention as he currently is -- he’s not completely sure Hanamiya is thinking about anything at all beyond the too-much sensation radiating out into him from the thrum of the vibrator -- and much though he enjoys pushing Hanamiya’s limits there’s no point in making demands for focus the other can’t give. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” Hanamiya makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something incoherent even before it presses against the weight of his gag, but Imayoshi doesn’t try to pull apart the raw noise into something carrying actual meaning. He steps in instead, coming up to the edge of the bed so he can weight a knee against the give of the mattress between Hanamiya’s trembling legs, and when he leans in it’s to brace a hand against the sheets beneath them so he can steady his weight over the other. Hanamiya moans at the movement, his whole body quivering as he tries to curve his spine to hold himself to stillness; but Imayoshi is reaching for his hip without waiting and closing his fingers hard enough to brace against the sweat-slick of the other’s skin.

“Let’s see,” he says, still conversational, and pulls hard to drag the other’s weight up and off the bed. Hanamiya yelps at the movement, his shoulders flexing to strain helplessly against the restraints binding his arms together, but it doesn’t make a difference; Imayoshi’s grip is sure and steady, tight enough for him to pull Hanamiya backwards across the sheets by inches as he forces the other’s hips up and off the sheets. The fabric clings to the other as he moves, wet cloth sticking to hot skin as Hanamiya’s weight comes up over the press of his knees to the bed before the pull of Imayoshi’s bracing hand tugs it free; Hanamiya makes another sound at the shift, whining far in the back of his throat, but Imayoshi ignores that as much as everything else as he eases his grip on the other’s hip to let his fingers slide down and around to the tension against Hanamiya’s stomach instead. The other’s skin is wet, sticky with half-dried come and hot from the weight of Hanamiya’s body against the bed; Imayoshi hums, letting the sound go warm and weighty in his chest as he trails his fingers down to drag through the damp.

“You’ve made a mess of yourself,” he tells Hanamiya, feeling his mouth pull on the start of a smile as he watches the other shudder just from the glancing weight of his fingers. “How many times have you come since I left you here? Twice?” His hand drags down, his palm pressing flush against Hanamiya’s skin as he moves. “Three times?” He stretches his littlest finger out, reaching over the gap between Hanamiya’s stomach and the damp weight of his cock; Hanamiya jerks with the contact, ghosting though it is, his whole body jerking backwards like Imayoshi’s sunk the force of a punch in against the give of his stomach. Imayoshi’s eyebrows raise, his smile pulls wider. “Did you make it all the way to four, Makoto?” He tips his hips forward to press close against Hanamiya before him; the motion weights against the base of the vibrator still thrumming inside the other and draws a desperate, convulsive jerk through the whole of Hanamiya’s body, but Imayoshi doesn’t pull his weight back, just stays where he is to brace Hanamiya still while he lets his hand drop down to feel out the heat of the other’s cock. Hanamiya writhes with the touch of Imayoshi’s fingers, his shoulders straining and his throat going raw on a helpless groan, but Imayoshi ignores this in favor of feeling out the curve of Hanamiya’s length against his fingers and pressing the burden of his touch against the still-swollen heat of the other’s arousal.

“You must be exhausted,” Imayoshi purrs, the words sympathetic and his tone anything but. Hanamiya wheezes for air around the wet of the gag in his mouth, pulls in futile desperation against the bonds at his wrists; Imayoshi can see bruises visible against the other’s skin, can see the raw red of the damage Hanamiya has done to himself fighting against the restraints. There’s not much strength to his effort now; it’s a reflexive attempt, without any real hope of breaking free of the knots Imayoshi set himself. Imayoshi smiles to see it, feels his chest tightening on radiant appreciation as he pulls his touch down against Hanamiya’s shaft, as he stretches his fingers wide to curl and cup the weight of the other’s balls drawn up taut against his body with the strain of too-much sensation. “Do you want me to let you up?” Hanamiya moans something, the sound garbled past coherency around the gag in his mouth, and Imayoshi huffs a laugh around the tug of his smile.

“I can’t understand you like that,” he says, and lets his touch draw away from Hanamiya’s balls so he can reach out for the dark tangle of the other’s hair. “Let me see what I can do to help.” The knot is tight against the back of the other’s head, set close to prevent Hanamiya finding a way to writhe free of it, but it’s been wound into the dark strands by the other’s futile struggles; it takes Imayoshi a moment to work the knot free, and another to disentangle the fabric from the sweat-matted weight of Hanamiya’s hair. Hanamiya groans as the gag comes free, gasping to fill his lungs as Imayoshi pulls the weight of it free of his mouth; his lips are red at the corners, rubbed raw by the damp fabric, but he seems to be more interested in catching an unobstructed breath of air than in anything else for the first moment.

“How about it?” Imayoshi asks, letting the undone gag drop over the edge of the bed while Hanamiya pants against the sheets under him. He fits his fingers against the mess of Hanamiya’s hair, pushing against the weight of it to urge it back from the other’s face; his fingers catch at knots, drag through tangles with enough force to pull Hanamiya’s head sideways, but Hanamiya barely even shudders with what must be painful pressure. “Do you want me to turn the vibrator off? Untie your hands? Let you go?”

Hanamiya licks against the corners of his mouth, shuts his eyes for a moment as he breathes. His face is as flushed as the red of him; he looks feverish, with the color staining his cheeks conflicting so sharply with his usual pale skin and the inky black of his hair. “Senpai,” he manages, and his voice is as raw as his mouth, shredded down to almost a whisper in his throat as he forces the word past his lips.

“Yes,” Imayoshi purrs, feeling the sound of Hanamiya’s wrecked voice run down his spine and quiver through the heat of his cock with even more pleasure than the distant thrum of the vibrator pressing against the front of his pants is offering. “What do you want, Makoto?”

“I want,” Hanamiya rasps, and then he presses his lips tight together and grimaces through a swallow before he opens his eyes again to stare at the wall in front of him. His eyes are almost entirely black, the color swallowed up in the blown-out infinity of his pupils; Imayoshi wonders distantly how much he’s actually seeing, wonders how much of Hanamiya’s vision has faded to overexposed white to make him blind with too-much sensation. “I want you to _fuck_ me.”

Imayoshi doesn’t have a chance to catch back the bubble of amusement that presses up his throat. It’s too immediate, it rushes out of him on a surge of delight that even now, even like this, even knowing the other with an intimacy that comes from seeing the broken-open insides of a thing, Hanamiya can still surprise him.

“Really?” Imayoshi asks, the question taut at the edges around that first rush of laughter still tugging a smile at his lips. “After all this? You can barely stand for me to _touch_ you and you think you can take more?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Hanamiya says again, forming the words to deliberation against his wet-red lips. “That’s all.”

“You can’t take it,” Imayoshi tells him, and he grinds his hips in harder against Hanamiya’s, rocking his weight forward so the pressure works against the hum of movement buried inside the other’s body. Hanamiya jerks at his bonds, his eyelashes flutter over a shudder at least as much pain as pleasure, and Imayoshi winds his fingers to a fist in Hanamiya’s hair to drag against the other’s head. “You’re going to pass out if I fuck you like you deserve, Makoto.”

Hanamiya makes a weird sound in the back of his throat, something dark and low and straining in his chest. “ _Please_ ,” he manages, sounding shattered down through his very core, and Imayoshi lets himself groan appreciation for that tone, for the way the sound rolls down his spine to settle against the knot of desire he’s been carrying low in his stomach since he was first working Hanamiya open around the slick press of his fingers.

“Well,” he finally manages, and his voice has dropped off a cliff, it’s dipping into smoke and shadow so heavy he can taste the darkness at the back of his tongue. “Since you asked so nicely.” He pushes up from the bed, rocking back over his knees to give himself full use of both hands, and before him Hanamiya shuts his eyes again, the movement as heavy as if he lacks the strength to hold his lashes up from that heat-glazed stare. He’s still shaking; his whole body is trembling, with the effort of holding himself up and the heat radiating off him like the sticky black of summertime pavement and the hum of the vibrator still working unflinchingly inside him. Imayoshi smiles to see it, his mouth curving around the shape of possessive appreciation as if he’s looking at a sculpture, as if he’s admiring the artistic lines of some created beauty instead of the form of an actual living person. But then it makes it better, he reflects as he unfastens the buckle of his belt, as he eases the button open and the zipper free of the strain of his cock inside his briefs; it’s better to have Hanamiya slick with sweat, and panting heat into the air, and radiant in every aspect with all the details of existence that mere art would lack. Better to have him like this, to have the aesthetics and the visceral reality at once; it’s certainly more satisfying to have the ache of physical desire in his own body, to have the primal relief of the tension of his clothes giving way to bare the slick head and swollen shaft of his own cock instead of just the cool, distant appreciation that would come with a more structured form of beauty.

Imayoshi considers the question absently, letting his gaze map out the sharp downward sweep of Hanamiya’s spine, the tremor in his thighs, the open gasp of his lips; and then he reaches down with one hand to brace his fingers at his cock, to angle the curve of it out before him in expectation before he reaches for the base of the vibrator humming inside Hanamiya. Hanamiya moans as Imayoshi’s fingers steady against the toy -- Imayoshi can see his shoulders strain, can see his tied-back hands curl themselves into fists against the dip of his spine -- but Imayoshi only gives him a moment to brace himself before he pulls back in a single sharp motion. Hanamiya convulses, his entire spine flexing in response to the friction dragging rough inside his overused body; and Imayoshi rocks forward, thrusting his cock into the slick heat of the other while Hanamiya is still clenching in involuntary reaction to the sudden removal of the sensation.

The sound Hanamiya makes is something uncanny, low and dragging over heat and agony and want all at the same time. It would be a scream if it were louder; it would be a moan if it were lower. But it’s neither, instead something between the two forced out of him by the weight of Imayoshi’s cock driving into him, and Imayoshi huffs an exhale of satisfaction and lets himself go so he can close his hold at Hanamiya’s hip instead and brace the tremor of the other’s body still while he thumbs the controls of the vibrator to off to stop the low mechanical hum of the overworked motor. The plastic of it goes still, the slow gyration that has been so undoing Hanamiya ceases, and Imayoshi leaves it against the sheets in favor of pressing his palm flat to the bed so he can lean in over Hanamiya’s sweat-slick spine instead.

“Makoto,” he purrs, letting the sound spill hot in the back of his throat as he leans in, as if it’s liquid rushing over his tongue and past his lips to drip against the tension at the back of Hanamiya’s neck. “You’re so _hot_.” He tightens his grip at Hanamiya’s hip, digging his fingers in deep while he draws his hips back so he can take a full thrust forward; Hanamiya spasms, his body tensing around Imayoshi’s cock while his throat drags over a moan, and Imayoshi sighs satisfaction at the friction bearing down so hard against the long-ignored ache of want under his skin. “Yes, like that.” He angles his hips back, shifting his line of motion as he takes another drawn-out thrust forward; Hanamiya’s fingers catch against his own arms, his nails digging in to score lines of red against his skin like he’s trying to brace himself still, as if he has any real say at all over his movement at the moment, with Imayoshi’s fingers digging in so hard at his hip and Imayoshi’s cock taking long, deliberate thrusts against the shudder of his body. Imayoshi leans in closer, lets his chest pin Hanamiya’s desperate hands down against his spine so he can press his mouth against the back of the other’s neck, so he can fit his teeth against the strain of the other’s skin; Hanamiya makes a sound at the contact, a whine deep down in his chest like it’s tearing out of him. When Imayoshi takes a breath he can taste salt in the air, can feel the humid weight of Hanamiya’s sweat and excess pleasure hanging heavy in his lungs as he breathes it in past his lips and deep into his chest.

“You’re best like this,” Imayoshi says against the back of Hanamiya’s neck, murmuring the words so they come out soft and intimate to the curve of the other’s ear. Hanamiya groans, his lashes dip in Imayoshi’s periphery, and Imayoshi shifts his weight, drawing one knee forward and angling the other back so he can adjust the angle of his thrusts, so he can press his cock hard against the resistance of Hanamiya’s body for the whole length of his thrust. “After you’ve been warmed up for me. Do you even have any fight left in you after four orgasms?” Hanamiya hisses, a gust of air answer enough in itself, and Imayoshi chuckles dark even before Hanamiya’s grip against his elbow eases so he can struggle himself into a clawing scratch at Imayoshi’s chest instead. He has little traction and less range of motion, but the edges of his nails are still enough to dig bruises into Imayoshi’s skin, to stripe a short pattern of pain in against the bottom of his ribcage.

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums. “Yes, I thought you might.” He lets his hold on Hanamiya’s hip go, reaching up to grab hard at the other’s bound arms instead as he lifts himself up and away by a span of inches; Hanamiya growls at the movement, snarling something feral in the back of his throat as he loses traction for his attack on Imayoshi’s skin, but then Imayoshi shoves up hard and his fleeting resistance gives way instead to a gasping inhale of pain as his shoulders flex and strain against the utmost edge of their range of motion. Hanamiya’s breathing goes shallow, whining high in his chest as he gasps for what air he can get with the instinctive panic resulting from his position, and Imayoshi tightens his grip pinning Hanamiya’s arms to his back and braces his knees steady against the bed.

“You ought to know better than that,” he chides, his tone gentle, affectionate, almost doting, even as he raises his volume to be sure Hanamiya can hear him over the ragged edge of his breathing. “Did you want to come again that badly, Makoto?” Hanamiya gasps, his eyes opening as wide as they will go, and Imayoshi smiles down at him.

“You’re in luck,” he says, and closes his fingers to a fist on the sheets under him. “I’m feeling indulgent today.” And he starts to move, hard, dropping into a rhythm for his thrusts that he can feel surge adrenaline through his veins and catch his breathing faster just on the physical exertion of the motion. Hanamiya’s shoulders flex, his mouth opens on a voiceless wail of reaction as Imayoshi’s cock rams against abused nerve endings; but Imayoshi doesn’t slow, and doesn’t ease the pressure he’s exerting against Hanamiya’s bound hands underneath his fingers. His belt is sliding loose of his pants, the buckle slipping down by an inch as he continues his rough pace; it’s smacking against the back of Hanamiya’s thigh with every forward thrust, Imayoshi can see the color of a bruise already rising against the pale skin. And Hanamiya: Hanamiya is gasping, is shuddering, his whole body is quaking through convulsive reaction to every movement of Imayoshi’s cock inside him, his eyes are as wide as his panting mouth. His fingers twitch against the air, straining for traction on something they can’t reach; his shoulders won’t stop shaking as muscles protest the strain of holding Hanamiya’s arms in the alignment they’re meant to have against the push of Imayoshi’s grip. Imayoshi can feel every jolt of tension that runs through the other’s body with his movements, the first quiver of impact as his belt buckle smacks bruised skin and then again, deeper, as his cock drives inescapable sensation out through the whole of Hanamiya’s body, like a weight hitting the resonant curve of a bell. Hanamiya is quaking, is panting, is coming undone under Imayoshi’s grip and for the press of Imayoshi’s body; and Imayoshi can taste the power of it in the air, can feel his thoughts going helium-light and dizzy with the rush of absolute control crackling so clearly in every deliberate motion he takes.

“Makoto,” he says, hearing his voice echo against the inside of his own head, feeling the weight of it turning over in his chest to come out low and hot and certain. “How does it feel?” He shifts his fingers at Hanamiya’s arms, drives forward to punctuate with another thrust of his hips. “Tell me.”

Hanamiya makes a desperate noise, a weak whine of sound in the very back of his throat; and Imayoshi pushes up against the other’s arms, just barely increasing the pressure of the angle. It’s hardly any force at all -- Imayoshi doesn’t think he could tell the difference in effort from his perspective, once it’s done -- but Hanamiya’s whole spine arches, his body curving like a bow in the effort to ease the strain, and when his breath rushes out of him it carries words with it. “ _Senpai_ ” is first, drawn into that plea that Imayoshi has never listened to before, that Hanamiya knows he won’t listen to now, and then: “Too much,” rough and rushed, trembling in time with Hanamiya’s straining thighs against Imayoshi’s. “Too much, senpai, I can’t, I need--” and a gasp, a shaky pull of air into a chest straining too hard on sensation to allow for the inhale. “Senpai, _please_.”

“Does it feel good?” Imayoshi asks. “Will you come if I tell you to?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya chokes off. “I can’t, I can’t, I…” and a rattling breath, desperation so sharp it’s audible. “I can’t _breathe_ , please, senpai, please please please, I--”

“I want you to come again,” Imayoshi says, talking over the mumble of Hanamiya’s words without paying any more attention to them than the passing notice they deserve. “Are you listening to me, Makoto?” Hanamiya sobs an exhale, presses his eyes shut tight; Imayoshi can see the tension at his mouth when he jerks his head in a nod of understanding against the sheets. Imayoshi smiles down at him.

“Good,” he says, and shifts his hold on Hanamiya’s arms as he rocks his weight back, as he steadies himself for the next thrust. “Now, Makoto” and he rocks forward, his cock driving deep into the other in sync with his words. Hanamiya’s eyes open wide, his lips part to suck in a shocked inhale; and Imayoshi shoves hard against the other’s arms, pushing up past the point of pain and into agony just as Hanamiya’s body starts to tighten around him. Hanamiya’s head angles back, his thighs jerk with reflexive reaction, and: “ _Shoichi_ ” tears out of him like a scream, Imayoshi’s name forced from his lips as his orgasm is wrenched from him by the other’s movement. His whole body seizes tight, every muscle tensing with what must be cramping force, and Imayoshi groans over him and keeps moving, fucking in against the throes of Hanamiya’s pleasure while his own anticipation spikes and unravels into certainty. Hanamiya’s arms are shaking under his hold, Hanamiya is gasping like he’s drowning against the sheets under him, and against his cock Imayoshi can feel every spasm of pressure that rushes through Hanamiya clenching around him, can feel the surging friction that comes with every jolt of sensation in the other spill over to heat his own pleasure. He’s breathing harder, he’s moving faster, every stroke pushes him closer to--and then it hits him all at once, the tension climbing against his spine goes slack and calm, and “Ah,” Imayoshi sighs, relief warm on his voice, “ _Makoto_ ” and he comes in a long, drawn-out spill of heat, his cock pulsing into Hanamiya while the rest of his body goes all-over warm with the pleasure that rushes over him. His thumb digs in hard against Hanamiya’s arm, the weight of it pressing with bruise-certain strength, and Imayoshi lets his head tip back, and lets his breathing go long and slow and deep, and lets the rush of orgasm sweep away anything but pleasure from his mind for long, satisfied seconds.

Hanamiya has gone still when Imayoshi collects himself back into the scope of his own body. For a moment Imayoshi wonders if the other has actually passed out, if sensation and pain and pleasure together spiked too high for consciousness to bear; but Hanamiya’s legs are still trembling, if only barely, and his arms are still tense against the bracing hold Imayoshi has on them, and his eyes are open if unfocused when Imayoshi considers his expression. Imayoshi considers him for a moment, looking at the heat flush staining Hanamiya’s face to crimson and the wet of his parted lips as he pants against the sheets under him; and then he sighs out the last strain of pleasure from his chest, and eases his hold on Hanamiya’s arms so he can straighten over his knees and brace at the other’s hips instead. Hanamiya grimaces as his arms relax into a more comfortable position, his forehead creasing and mouth shifting on discomfort, but he doesn’t struggle in an attempt to break himself loose, and he doesn’t resist Imayoshi’s hands closing at his hips to hold him steady while the other draws back and out of him. There’s a flicker of reaction as Imayoshi’s cock slides free, a flutter of eyelashes and a shift of Hanamiya’s mouth on an exhale Imayoshi suspects to be relief as much as loss; but the reaction goes unvoiced, and when Imayoshi slides back off the edge of the bed to shed the weight of his pants Hanamiya stays where he is, his hips still canted up like he’s an offering for whatever audience he has, his drained cock still half-hard between his trembling thighs as pleasure lingers in his overused body.

Imayoshi takes his time with the knots at Hanamiya’s ankles. They’re as tight as those binding the other’s wrists at his back, pressing as close against the sharp angle of bone beneath skin, and they’ve left bruises too; there’s the red imprint of texture all against Hanamiya’s skin as the rope comes free, a deep purple starting in over the higher jut of the bone at his ankle. Imayoshi thumbs against the color, appreciating the way the skin pales to the pressure as much as the huff of response the friction urges from Hanamiya’s throat; and then he moves on to repeat the process on the other, to unfold the tension of the knot from dark-bruised skin and touch his fingers to the injuries Hanamiya’s fruitless struggling caused. He’s bleeding on this side; there’s a raw mark at the back tendon of his ankle where the rope rubbed deep enough to break the skin in a few places. Imayoshi touches his fingertips to the red, collects the color against his touch; and then he leaves Hanamiya’s legs free, and comes back up to kneel between the other’s spread-open knees so he can reach out for the bindings wound close to press Hanamiya’s forearms tightly together. The position is more than suggestive in itself, the more so with Hanamiya’s skin so flushed and Hanamiya’s breathing still so raw in his throat; Imayoshi can feel his spent cock stir with the prickle of desire that runs through him, the heat pressing close enough against Hanamiya that he can certainly feel the shudder of want that runs through Imayoshi’s body. But even Hanamiya’s had enough, at least for now, so Imayoshi turns his attention to unwinding the loops of rope from around the other’s arms instead of letting his imagination wander to the other ways he could amuse himself.

Hanamiya’s skin is red from wrist to elbow, here, the skin bruised and swollen from his futile struggles with the rope binding his arms. Imayoshi pulls the bindings free and drops them over the edge of the bed, replacing the grip of the rope with the press of his fingers as he works down one and then the other of Hanamiya’s arms, digging his thumb in against the red as much to test the hiss of the other’s breathing as to urge bloodflow back to the aching skin. Hanamiya doesn’t turn his head down against the sheets, doesn’t look up from his glazed stare at the wall in front of him; but he lets his arm fall to his side as Imayoshi lets the first go, taking enough initiative to work through the effort of easing the strain at his elbow and shoulder, and that’s enough to prove him able at least to listen to Imayoshi’s voice.

“So,” Imayoshi says, as he presses his fingers in against the inside tendons of Hanamiya’s arm and pushes until Hanamiya hisses with the strain, until the other’s fingers are curling in reflexive response to the action. “How do you feel, Makoto?” Imayoshi lets Hanamiya’s arm go to fall at the other’s side like the first before he rocks back over his knees and pulls at the other’s hip to urge him up and over; Hanamiya’s dead weight for a moment, the dregs of heat in him too much to let Imayoshi easily move him, but then he gets a palm to the sheets under him, and pushes himself up onto a shoulder, and if he hisses with the effort at least it’s enough to turn him over to fall heavily on his back across the sheets. Imayoshi leans back in as fast as Hanamiya falls, catching his knee at the outside of the other’s thigh and coming in to pin the sprawl of the other’s legs down to the bed under his weight; Hanamiya’s eyelashes dip, his mouth parts on a huff, and Imayoshi braces his palm alongside the other’s head to take his weight while he reaches to push the tangle of dark hair back and away from Hanamiya’s features. “What did you learn today?”

Hanamiya blinks up at Imayoshi, his gaze shimmering in and out of focus as he struggles to bring himself back to clarity. His tongue comes out to run across his lower lip; Imayoshi’s attention drops to follow the wet slide of it, lingering against the damp even as Hanamiya works himself into a full breath of air to give a response. “Cheating is _wrong_ , senpai.”

Imayoshi hums himself into a smile. “Yes,” he purrs. “And what will happen if you brag to me about cheating in your classes again?”

Hanamiya’s mouth drags up sharply at the corner. His teeth flash white for a moment. “You’ll punish me.”

“That’s right.” Imayoshi pushes his fingers deep into the tangled mess of Hanamiya’s hair, curling his grip into a fist so his hold pulls taut against the other’s scalp; Hanamiya’s lashes flutter, his throat working on a moan so faint Imayoshi can see it more than hear it. “And are you going to do it again?”

Hanamiya’s laugh drags at the back of his throat, unravelling into sincere amusement as he opens his eyes to look up at Imayoshi through the dark weight of his lashes. “Come on, senpai,” he drawls, and his voice is wrecked but the words still lilt clearly enough to piece out the taunt on the sounds even without the angled pull of his smile to go with them. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

Imayoshi lets his smile show his teeth. “No,” he says, and leans in over the sharp angle his hold is making of Hanamiya’s head. “It doesn’t.”

Hanamiya’s laugh shatters itself to heat against the edge of Imayoshi’s smile.


End file.
